


Fight Another Day

by KnightingaleSong



Category: Original Work
Genre: 18+, Death, Fantasy, Gay, LGBT, Love, M/M, Magic, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Story - Freeform, Romance, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Themes, Violence, gladiator, m/m - Freeform, mlm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 62,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightingaleSong/pseuds/KnightingaleSong
Summary: Atlas is undefeated. He entered the arena at thirteen and drowned in blood, victorious.  He is a prince by blood, but who isn't in the Colosseum? The K'reche Tribes took over half of the great continent of Atora, and made use of the twelve royal bloodlines to breed powerful, Ether rich gladiators, batteries, and soldiers.Known to be cold and cruel, Atlas knew no warmth, held nothing dear, and lived a monotonous life within the sandstone walls of the Colosseum, under the unchanging desert sun. He was content, or so he thought until a new batch of gladiators were presented to him, and among them was an impossibly powerful individual. Yet impossibly gentle.Atlas's master tasked him with training this individual, to make him into a useful tool. But how could Atlas ever train a gentle doctor into a ruthless gladiator? His regime certainly didn't include  harboring a dangerous, foolish attraction!(Note: Please do not read this story if you are sensitive towards topics around death, sexual abuse and rape. Sexual abuse is not described in detail, and not condoned.)





	1. New Arrival

 

 

The grace period. One more, one more and the grace period can begin again.

So tired.

He dropped his knee into soft flesh and dragged down his sword, piercing through a bright, blood stained eye. There was some satisfaction. Finally. Seeing this nuisance of a face finally lose that smug sneer, to feel their hands clutching desperately to his blood soaked sash, as if they were begging in a way.

This opponent has lasted too long. Three tournaments. Atlas couldn't stand it. But, the performance put the crowds on edge, as if there was even the _slightest_ chance Atlas could be defeated. As long as the audience is happy and not bored.

Atlas dragged in ragged breaths, slowly lifting himself. He yanked out his sword, raised it high, then shot down, severing his opponent's head cleanly. This head, he grabbed like a sack by the greasy brown hair, and gandered the unpleasant, rectangular face.

“Smile now,” Atlas hissed and pivoted, chucking the head into the air towards the guest side of the colosseum. Atlas grabbed a spear, and from his fingertips, blood orange light seeped into the wood. He threw the spear, it surged forth with eager sparks and met with the head.

The crowds, home or guest, roared as the head exploded and the spear pierced through the shield, just enough to stick there. It's sharp point threatened a pregnant woman's unborn child, as she sat on the stone, draped in silks under a glittering eaves.

The entire guest side not only booed, but roared with rage. The people of K'reche, however, were clawing at each other in both absolute glee and utter greed. Bets were won, bets were lost. Pleased faces in the K'reche crowd, but not in the Klepharic crowd, nor in the arena.

The uproar drowned into white noise with an ongoing, but small high pitched sound and Atlas's ears hurt less. He lifted his gaze to the afternoon sun and tasted the blood dripping from his face. His shoulders finally slackened. If no one has come at him, then the guest “team” must all be dead.

Atlas didn't care how many bodies were left standing on his side. Quite a handful this time, however. Master Rhys has been buying gladiators differently somehow.

Wiping away blood and flesh from his blade with his fingers, Atlas stepped over bodies indiscriminately, slowly, searching for his opponent's weapon.

“LORY!!” a voice cried out.

Atlas stopped and looked up, finding a lithe, limping man approach, his eyes wide, wild and wet. His tears left behind clean streaks on his otherwise blood ridden face.

“GET OFF OF HIM!” the man roared.

Turns out, his opponent's weapon was lodged in the head of the body beneath his feet. Atlas vaguely recognized the corpse and the man limping towards him. They were constantly together, sharing quiet intimacy through the nights.

Atlas stepped aside, crouched, and wove his fingers through the corpse's hair, below the spikes of the mace weapon. He grabbed the mace handle and slowly pulled it out, keeping the corpse's scalp intact.

“Get. Away. From him.”

Atlas stood, meeting the unsteady blue gaze of the corpse's lover. He glanced at the mace in his hand, then held it out to the man before him.

The man's bared his clenched teeth at the weapon, his breath leaving him shakily, eyes completely distorted from blobs of tears.

“Take it. Or I will,” Atlas hissed.

The man looked away, claiming the mace and dropping to his knees before his slaughtered lover, whom he gathered into his arms, rocking back and forth.

“Lory, Lory I'm so sorry,” the man sobbed quietly. “My love, I'm so sorry.”

Atlas turned and walked away. This sort of scene has played out before Atlas many times, remarkably. These lovers are often people who have not grown up in a colosseum, but from somewhere else.

He wasn't ever sure where. Atlas has never left these sandstone walls in his meager twenty-three years.

He has also noticed that outsiders don't last long. Only a handful have, and this handful often pairs up with the handful of gladiators that Atlas grew up with.

Some of the newbies have survived. Five. That's rare. Only two or three newbies make it.

Atlas left the arena, entering the warm yellow sandstone walls of the colosseum and into a large, round room, big enough to fit a hundred men and women, with walls covered in weapons. Atlas had his own personal wall, covered ceiling to floor with his trophies, and he touched the space he left open for his opponent's mace.

Despite his opponents being annoying, Atlas couldn't help but feel weirdly excited. Who next will become his opponent? What kind of weapon will he take as a trophy next?

Atlas sat for a bit, and as he cleaned his sword, the rest of his “team” walked exhaustedly inside.

A pair of bloodied boots entered Atlas's view. He lifted his head to peer upon a man, whose once wild, bright blue eyes were now dark, still seeping with tears.

“Lory admired you,” the man spoke quietly, voice ragged. “Why did you step on him?”

Atlas glared and sharply sheathed his sword. “I don't know either of you. Leave.”

“We trained under you for a year!” the man shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls.

“What do you want from me?” Atlas hissed as he stood. “To share your pain? Carry it yourself.”

Atlas hung his sword and brushed past the man.

The man breathed hoarsely in rage and screamed, “ACKNOWLEDGE HIM! He wanted your acknowledgement so badly. Grant him that wish!”

No. Atlas acknowledges no one. And certainly not those who die.

At the other side of the weapons room was a large doorway, no doors, but shielded with a layer of blue light, moving like a kaleidoscope.

Like everyone else, men and women, Atlas stripped down naked. There were two lines on either side of the blue shield. Behind the shield, two lines of servants in black robes and masks, and before the shield, two lines of naked figures, about thirty left of the one hundred men and women that gathered here just hours before.

Atlas handed all of his clothes to a servant, who bowed and left. Another servant stepped up and removed the leather band from his hair. They ran their fingers through the dark, blood caked strands, looking for anything sharp. Once nothing was found, the servant locked a thin golden collar around his neck.

All of his ethereal energy poured from his veins into his torso, as if trying to hide.

With the collar, Atlas was now able to pass through the blue shield, past a short bland room, and straight into a blindingly white showering room. Everyone's movements were slow, trying to clean around their wounds, trying to stand. Those who needed more urgent care were taken away by servants.

Atlas stood under a shower head, greeted by chilling waters. He swayed a bit, side to side, as his mind went blank for a few minutes. Until he heard laughter and a yelp as skin hit the white tiles.

“Ow!”

“That's what you get, bitch. Stop tryin to piss on me, it isn't funny.”

“It's sterile!” a man laughed, then yelped again as he was kicked.

Atlas grabbed some soap from a small niche below the shower head, and washed from head to toe. Blood ran down to the drain almost unceasingly.

“Hey Attie! Wanna fuck?” a man called to Atlas's back, almost in earnest, also in laughter.

“Me and Gregory are always up to it. Why do you bother asking Master Rhys's slut?” a woman asked.

“I can't help it. Attie is so sensual. Oi! If you're _ever_ in the mood, just sneak into my bed and have your way!”

“Hans, you don't know what weird shit he might be into. My money is on necrophilia.”

Hans barked out laughing. “WHAT MONEY!?”

Atlas turned off the shower and pulled his hair over his shoulder, wringing it out as he left the room through a double leaved door. A servant bowed to him, holding out clean blue robes to him. This was his “personal” servant. He knew them by the scars on their hands and height. They always gave him robes that fit, new leather ties for his hair, and messages from Master Rhys. Atlas was allowed to name this servant, so he named them Sift, after the sound Sift's robes made on the sandstone.

“Any wounds to be mended, Atlas?” Sift inquired, following behind Atlas as he traversed down a long hallway. Glass-less windows looked out into a courtyard filled with red cacti.

Atlas shrugged on his robes, tying a sash around his waist. “Nothing serious.”

“As expected,” Sift spoke warmly. “Master Rhys is beyond pleased with your performance. The King has once again praised you. His offer still stands.”

“I'm not interested in fucking him.”

“I see. I will relay your answer.”

“Stupid,” Atlas muttered. “If he wants me, then why ask?”

“He isn't interested in taking your embrace by force,” Sift replied.

Atlas didn't understand.

“New arrivals are coming today. Master Rhys wants you to train them all. But to take extra time with a certain individual,” Sift informed.

“How many arrivals? What individual?”

“Only forty arrivals. And you will know the individual when you see them.”

“Only forty?” Atlas hummed. “Master Rhys is going senile.”

Sift chuckled. “These forty show great promise.”

“He says that with every other batch. If he wants true promise, then why doesn't he spend the extra money on bred gladiators? Where is he picking up these weeds?”

“Outside the great kingdoms.”

“Hmph. Halfbreeds.”

“Not quite. Master Rhys found an especially precious pure blood royal.”

“This “certain individual?”” Atlas eyed Sift over his shoulder.

The dark robed figure nodded.

“I'm going to bed.”

“Do you wish for me to wake you up once the arrivals are here?”

“No need.”

Atlas waved Sift away and reached the end of the hall to an open doorway. Behind the doorway was a plain, rectangular, long room. One wall had a large niche, with a bed nestled inside whilst beds in short legged frames lined the long walls, allowing for one aisle down the middle of the room.

All the beds were made, but some have been pushed together.

All the windows lining one wall were crossed with iron bars and kaleidoscope shielding, only visible when one looks hard enough and turns their head a certain way.

Atlas went straight to his bed in the wall's niche. He decided to dress out of his robes and use one as a blanket. Lying there, his body aching with a golden collar pressing against his skin, he couldn't remember if it was the past or present, or if time was even real.

He has been here like this throughout his entire life. Sleeping has become easier.

Atlas's eyes slid shut.

It felt as though he hadn't fallen asleep, but upon the sounds of heckling and excitement, he saw the sun’s light had become softer and lower.

He blinked a bit groggily and sat up, combing his fingers through his hair and allowing his bangs to frame his face.

As he dressed into his robes, he listened to the far off voices of excitement.

“Ooo!! So many are pretty! Oh my gods, I can see who's gonna get punched by Atlas first!”

“Hey sweetheart, you gon need more muscle if you want to survive!”

“I'll bet my sword that that one's gonna try to escape. Can't wait to see em smash their face in.”

There were more sexual comments, especially from those who didn't get any from the last batch of gladiators. Sometimes sex happens between those who don't like each other, and sometimes their dislike can't be overlooked. Others are picky too. Atlas almost thought to himself, ‘don't be picky if you wish for pleasure’, but withheld it. He is picky too, yet isn't aware of what he looks for. Attraction happens very rarely for him.

Atlas's dark eyes glazed over as Master Rhys’s voice rang in his ears, the first time he was ever seriously enraged with Atlas.

_“ARE YOU A MAN!? If you cannot breed, you're useless to me!”_

It wasn't Atlas's fault he didn't like women. Not even the men Master Rhys brought in could arouse him. Drugs didn't work either. Only a small part of Atlas cared to resist, which confused him.

Why did he care if they used him to breed? All his life, only two goals were set out before him. Bring the colosseum and kingdom fame and prestige. And make more pureblood gladiators. It is amusing, somehow, to be the most acclaimed gladiator, yet a total failure as cattle.

Still, Atlas became useful. He's the first slave to train other slaves, far more effectively than any proper teacher. So, he has a use that will outlast his youth and the people's interest in him.

Atlas sighed, and took a step forward, only to freeze in place as a deep roar filled the barracks, and what followed after was a massive surge of ethereal energy, passing through Atlas's body and knocking him back a step.

He gasped and his heart raced. The collar around his neck began to heat up.

It shouldn't do that. Not unless the wearer tries to use their energy.

Atlas ran out of the room and down a short hallway, taking a right into a large, open air courtyard where most of everyone eats. It's also dubbed the “Orientation Court.”

The courtyard was wrecked. The stone tiles were shifted, gladiators in blue robes, and newbies in chains and rags, were knocked over. At the center of the courtyard, particularly large servants were pinning down a man who, as he screamed, sent out waves of energy. He already had gold bands around his ankles, glowing brightly, no doubt burning at skin.

Atlas has never seen such immense energy.

“Atlas!”

Sift was nearby, and Atlas absentmindedly caught a golden collar. Upon inspection, he found that the collar was slightly wider and thicker, embedded with fine jewels and covered in Runes.

Atlas breathed out and reached around his neck, removing his collar and dropping it to the ground.

He walked forward and waved off the servants pinning down the man. In a wave of fleeing black cloth, Atlas first saw pools of curly, dark blond hair, then slightly tanned skin, sprinkled lightly with freckles.

The man had a large frame, twice the size of Atlas, with worn, large hands. This one had absolutely no fighting experience at all.

What kind of life has he lived?

At least he was quick. As soon as the servants lifted their hands, he threw a punch and leapt up to his feet. But, not sturdy in any sense of the word, Atlas was able to drag the man down single handedly, and straddled him, digging his knee into the man's soft gut.

He gave a strangled gasp and a yell. Atlas caught his fist, slammed it down into the ground and quickly reached behind the man's neck, pressing his fingers and sending a bolt of blood orange energy into the man's spine.

Every part of his body below his neck froze, and with him being paralyzed, Atlas could take a better look at him. He was very shocked to see such big, bright eyes staring up at him, his grimy face streaked with tears.

These eyes were the eyes of a stray mutt. One eye was brown, but there was a burst of color, somewhat the color of the leafy foods served to the barracks. This color led to the man's left eye. Only a ring of brown around the pupil could be seen.

Atlas's gaze trailed down to the man's full, trembling lips and caught sight of a bright color, a weird red, sticking out beneath his ragged shirt.

Atlas brushed his fingers underneath, pushing aside the fabric. It wasn't a scar, nor a burn upon the man's skin, but an image, of scales? Of dull spikes? Atlas knows what a tattoo is. But has never seen this prominent color or these shapes before.

Atlas glared down at the man and swiftly locked the gold, bejeweled collar around his neck. Atlas withdrew his energy, and the man gasped, his body slackening. The collar abruptly absorbed whatever energy the man had left, and his eyes rolled up into his head, falling shut heavily.

Atlas stood and snapped his fingers. “Put him in a bed close to mine.”

Several servants stepped forward and hefted the man into their arms, taking him away. Atlas calmly picked up his golden collar and snapped it back into place.

“Newbies, line up! Everyone else, leave.” Atlas ordered to everyone in the courtyard.

Seasoned gladiators quickly retreated, hiding away inside the barracks whilst peering through the windows. The newbies awkwardly tried lining up into two rows, but it was difficult, seeing that they were all chained together.

Atlas scanned everyone of them, making sure they each wore a collar. He somewhat knew who would survive and who wouldn't, not merely based on their appearance, but on their composure and nerve.

Those who panic easily are sure to die.

“You are all now the property of Master Rhys, high priest and adviser to the King,” Atlas informed. “You are gladiators. You will fight in tournaments to gain fame and prestige for K'reche. Refuse to fight, and you will die. In five months, tournaments will begin again. I will train you all to fight, but it's up to you whether you want to survive or not. Training begins a week from now.”

There wasn't much else to say. Atlas preferred keeping certain details from newbies, so they may learn on their own what they can do and not do, and the consequences of violating the rules.

“Now, all of you strip, leave all of your clothes on the ground,” Atlas ordered.

“The fuck?” a woman spoke up. “Why? Who the hell are you!?”

“It doesn't matter who I am. Strip. Now.” Atlas glared.

No one moved.

“Your clothing is far from armor. In the next thirty seconds, whomever hasn't stripped will be punished,” Atlas growled.

“What the fuck can you do that hasn't already been done to us?” a man yelled, garnering a few grumbles of approval. “You're a child! Who has given you the author-”

The man found Atlas's fingers in his neck, lifting him from the ground with utter ease. The man choked and purposely sent spit to spray over Atlas's face.

Atlas slammed the man down to the ground and wiped the spit away. He removed his golden collar and pressed his hand into the man's gut. His ethereal energy surged into the man, forcing its way into his core and stirring up the man's own energy. Immediately, the man started screaming, with waves if energy leaving his body, absorbing into his collar. The collar started glowing red hot, burning away at his flesh and hair. The smell was overwhelming.

Once the man started crying, Atlas released his hold, withdrawing his energy.

“Strip.”

The man, despite his pain and newly acquired wound, started stripping, even as he writhed on the ground. It took a moment, but everyone else complied, readily dropping their clothes to the ground.

Servants came in, pairing up with the newbies and checking their hair and feeling their veins. The most cunning and desperate newbies and gladiators always think it's a wonderful idea to hide wires in their flesh.

A woman screamed as wires were pulled from her skin. Pins, needles and wires were found in everyone's hair.

Atlas found that a man was silent and very still. Atlas approached him slowly.

“Speak,” Atlas commanded.

The man blinked at him dumbly.

“He's mute,” another man informed.

“No, he isn't.” Atlas reached forward and brushed his fingers down the “mute’s” neck. “Take it out. Or I will ensure you will lose your throat, and starve to death.”

The “mute” closed his eyes, his head beading with sweat. He took a step back and tilted his head back, releasing a red thread from his mouth. He pulled the thread upwards, and slowly, a fair sized blade slipped out.

Atlas held out his hand and the blade reached the tip of his fingers before the man swept it away and came back swinging the blade with great speed.

Atlas grabbed the mute's arm, twisting it around until he felt his bones crack. With a strange, strangled roar, the blade dropped from his hand. The man really did sound like a mute.

Two servants came along quickly. One confiscated the blade and another put the mute's arm in a splint.

“All metal is prohibited inside the barracks,” Atlas announced. “Fighting with each other is allowed as long as the injuries do not interfere with the gladiator's ability to fight. I am allowed to carry out punishments as I see fit.”

Atlas glanced up at the sky. The sun was fading quickly. Stars were dancing in the dark warm orange of the sunset.

“I will show you all to the showers. Follow.”

In the showers, newbies were always very shy around each other, especially between the men and women. Atlas didn't understand it.

“Once you finish showering, dress. Dinner is in thirty minutes,” Atlas announced simply, and left the newbies to their own devices.

He traveled back to the sleeping room, and peered inside. Several gladiators were whispering amongst each other, poking at the unconscious individual situated closest to Atlas's bed.

“All of you. Leave,” Atlas ordered.

They all jolted and quickly left. One woman called over her shoulder, giggling. “Have fun with him, Attie!”

Atlas approached the bed, finding the man's feet hanging over the edge. Too tall. The man had become pale, and his clothes were drenched with sweat. One gets sick if they drain themselves of energy too quickly.

The man looked dead by all accounts,  except for his slow, shallow breaths. Atlas approached and knelt beside the bed, taking the man's collar off with a soft click. Atlas waited a second, to allow some energy to flow, before snapping the collar back in place. The new arrival breathed in sharply, deeply through his full lips and his body seemed to relax.

Atlas set about removing the man's clothes, from his muddy shirt to his muddy boots. Atlas felt around the man's arms for his most prominent veins. He paused at his hands and curiously pressed his own hand to the other's. Big hands indeed. This individual was young, perhaps around Atlas's age, but his hands almost appeared old, worn and calloused. These weren't the hands of a man who wielded any weapon. Maybe the occasional axe.

He finished inspection by digging his hand through the man's long wavy hair, there was dirt and the smell of burnt wood. Atlas found a metal clip. The thing wasn't too big, the length of his pinky and as wide as two pinkies. It was embedded with one red, false jem. Carved into the metal were familiar shapes. The same shapes that decorated part of the man's broad shoulder.

Atlas, as he was undressing the individual, got to look at the rest of the tattoo, which spanned across the man's back in a burst of colors. Atlas still didn't know what the shapes were. They looked like scales put into a circle formation. And odd little creatures.

Turning over the hair clip in his fingers, Atlas was distracted enough for the man to get a jump out of him as he shot upright, gasping and immediately yanking at the collar around his neck. Until he froze, looked down at his naked body, and turned those mutt-like eyes to Atlas.

“Wh,” the man stammered.

Atlas stood then, and the man's eyes locked onto the hair clip in his hand.

“Give that back!” he shouted. His voice was rather deep, but not vicious. His face easily flushed red.

“All metal inside the barracks is forbidden,” Atlas informed. “You cannot have it. Not unless you wish to be punished for harboring forbidden material.”

The man's eyes were so big and round, his mouth hanging open. He gripped Atlas's sleeve, somehow without Atlas's knowledge.

“Please,” bid the man, his deep, gentle voice and lips trembling, brows knitted upwards. “Please. It's the only thing I have left of my mother.” Tears dropped down his face. “Please.”

He couldn't find a reply. This man, twice his size, with strong worn hands and a voice like thunder, now looked as though a breeze could push him over. His big, bright eyes made Atlas sick.

Atlas withheld a breath and eyed the doorway. He knelt and removed his collar, then pressed his hand into a sandstone tile beside the man's bed. Blood orange light rippled the sandstone surface, and Atlas pressed the hair clip into the ripple. It sunk into the material, and the tile solidified, encasing the hair clip.

“You can have it in this way only,” Atlas hissed to the man as he clipped his collar back in place. He gathered the man's clothes under his arm. “The showers are at the end of the hall, to your left. You will be given new clothes.”

Atlas escaped the sleeping room and exhaled. His stomach jittered.

Just what has he done for this new arrival?


	2. Rejected

Some of the newbies settled in quickly, quick to make friends with the less seasoned gladiators, and quick to eat. Their adaptability is good. The rest of the newbies stuck to each other, quiet, crying, no appetite. Atlas was glad to see some fights break out between the newbies and seasoned gladiators.

A good will to fight is useful.

However, Atlas had no hope for the "certain individual" Master Rhys wanted him to give special attention to.

This individual nibbled at his dinner, alone in a corner. Without fail, those who exhibited this behavior also had no will to fight, and died in the arena. On purpose.

It seems his will to fight ended once the collar was put on him.

Atlas sat on a windowsill, one leg dangling in the courtyard, keeping a watchful eye on the newbies.

"Amory," a voice murmured in the dark.

Atlas's sleeve was tugged on, and he quietly left his perch, following the individual to a dead end hall, lit only faintly by sleepy moonlight.

He was pushed against a wall, his lips, neck and chest kissed.

"Why do call me 'Amory', Master Rhys?" Atlas inquired, glancing at the stars through the windows above him.

"Hmm, because it sounds like the name of a prince. One I can ravish and spoil."

Atlas was kissed again. He didn't move his lips, nor his body, but didn't hold himself like a statue. It was the body of complete indifference. Yet Master Rhys still found some joy in touching him.

He didn't care for the name 'Amory', a name given to him by his mother. By blood, Atlas is indeed a prince, or a royal of some other kind. His grandparents, whomever they were, probably ruled the lands of K'reche once, before they were overtaken, like every other royal family, by the K'reche Tribes. Overtaken by strange, new magic.

Atlas turned turned his face away, so he didn't have to smell the awful wine in Master Rhys's heavy breaths.

Master Rhys was always timely, always slightly inebriated when he sought out Atlas. This 'intimate' business was over quickly, Rhys was satisfied, Atlas was bored and impatient.

Master Rhys left a few lingering kisses on Atlas and chuckled. "I envy the whole hearted embrace you so rarely give to others. How else should I spoil you to earn it?"

Atlas sighed. "A gladiator wants for nothing but his opponent's blood on his face. What else have you come for, Master Rhys?"

Master Rhys smiled gently, petting Atlas's long hair. "What is your assessment of the certain individual I gave you?"

Atlas squinted his eyes. "Gave?"

"Yes. You can consider him your own property, and name him. Looks as though Sift neglected to communicate this to you."

"I will not own him for long," Atlas eyed Master Rhys's fingers, tangling in his hair. "He has immense power, so much so that he could escape if all the golden collars are taken off. But he doesn't appear to be a fighter. Not anymore. You've given me a useless mutt."

Master Rhys's fingers left Atlas's hair and came to lightly grip around his neck. Master Rhys continued to speak softly. "So, make him useful. If you cannot breed me more Atlases, then you will make me useful gladiators."

Atlas's master hissed sharply into his ear, "Do not fail."

Master Rhys didn't need to speak of the consequences. The moment his master tells him specifically not to fail, Atlas knows the gravity of the task. He remembered clearly the last time Master Rhys told him not to fail. Two years ago, Atlas was deemed ready to breed, but countless times, he failed. Master Rhys was at the end of his rope, and brought in many men, ordering Atlas to find the one he liked most. Telling him to not fail.

The outcome was the same. Atlas didn't understand what he liked, why he liked, or how. None of the men appealed to him, and even when some did, Atlas failed.

Master Rhys left Atlas alone in that moonlit dead end, the front of his robes soiled, his mind drifting off.

He cannot allow that individual to wallow in misery and rot away whatever potential he had. But Atlas didn't know how to ... to what, comfort? That individual had clean clothes, food, water and a bed. What more could he need?

Atlas traveled to the showers and cleaned his robes in a sink, then hung them up. He paused, then briefly rinsed himself down under a shower head before making his way to the sleeping room, where he kept spare robes.

Not to mention Atlas went against the rules of the barracks, and in a way allowed that man to keep his metal hair clip.

Somehow, he already knew what he had to do, and didn't want to to do it. But. Without fail, those who gather together in groups or pairs often lived longer. Solitary individuals are sometimes dragged into groups, or approached by another lonesome person.

Atlas, however, couldn't risk waiting for someone to approach this new, depressed object of his. It could take weeks to months. He needed  _now_.

His skin prickled incessantly. Atlas, in his entire life, has never done this before.

Atlas's feet stopped, and he stared down at the huddled figure in the corner, not a yard away. Atlas didn't make a sound as he wondered what words to say. This almost felt degrading. What has he heard others say to become familiar to a stranger?

The man's strange, clouded eyes shifted, blinked at the feet he saw before him and immediately jumped as he looked up at Atlas. His shoulders tensed, eyes brightening instantly. Again, such strange colors in a pair of eyes.

Atlas glared, scooched aside the man's tray of food and came closer, crouching down and immediately taking his forefinger and his thumb to the man's eyebrow and cheek, forcing his left eye to stay open.

Examining the iris and long lashes, Atlas inquired, "What color word is this eye?"

The man gently pushed away Atlas's hand with his palm, his brows drawing together, his full lips pursing. He looked at Atlas as if he were a strange bug.

Atlas's chest flared with an impatient heat. He hissed, "What color? What is the word for that color?"

"Uh,  _green_??" the man sounded confused by his own answer, eyeing Atlas weirdly.

" _Green_?" Atlas interrogated.

"Yes, green. It's a kind of green."

"There are kinds? Name them."

The man hadn't relaxed at all, despite Atlas talking with him. "Well ... my eye is a pale green. There's dark green. And tree green."

Atlas tilted his head at hearing the new word. "Tree? What is that?"

"You ... don't know?"

He snapped immediately, "If I knew, I would not ask!"

The man closed his eyes briefly, scratching his head before grabbing a vegetable from his tray. Atlas delighted in now knowing the vegetable was green.

"Sometimes, trees are shaped like this," the man explained. "But they're much bigger. They're green too, and very beautiful."

Atlas frowned at the vegetable deeply, wholly unable to imagine a true 'tree'.

The man put the small vegetable in his mouth and chewed silently, until he asked, "What is your name?"

"Atlas," he replied swiftly.

"I'm Milo."

Atlas started. This person had a name already? Who dared to name his property?

"Who gave you such a name?" Atlas hissed.

'Milo' frowned. "My mother of course. Why, is it bad?"

Mother. Of course? Do mothers often name their offspring? Atlas thought he was an exception, but now this Milo was speaking as though it were normal for a woman to name something that wasn't hers.

"I will name you," Atlas's eyes bore into Milo's. "Master Rhys has given you to me. Naming you is my right."

Milo's big eyes suddenly regarded Atlas with an exhausted look. "Please, leave me alone, Atlas."

Atlas had enough of the prickling hairs at the back of his neck anyway. He left Milo, his chest flaring with anger. Why didn't he grab Milo's hair and slam his face to the ground? It seems Milo weaponized the word 'please' again.

In the end, did Atlas accomplish nothing? Did he waste his time?

Atlas glanced at the alignment of the stars irritatedly before leaving the courtyard, only vaguely registering the confused gazes pointing into his back. He stayed up past his bedtime to talk with that Milo.

Why do outsiders need company and certain intimacies in order to function? What colosseums and breeding centers did they come from? Are there such things outside the great kingdoms?

Atlas knew one thing for certain - none of these mysterious places raised these gladiators correctly. Shining examples were everywhere, not just with Milo, but also with the man who lost his Lory.

Such mutts were incurable.

○°☆°○

The next day, the entire barracks was teeming with leisure. The newbies were certainly growing to enjoy it. There were snacks provided throughout the day, and alcohol was brought in abundance. It was a gift for the seasoned gladiators, and a welcome to the newbies.

Fights broke out often, mostly due to the seasoned gladiators provoking the temperamental newbies. And the newbies who were adverse to sexual advances.

This happened often. New faces and bodies were a sight for sore eyes, a chance to taste someone new and make an ally. Atlas was surprised it took until the second night of the grace period, in the sleeping room, so hear intimacy. Atlas didn't recognize a certain voice, so it must have been a newbie and a seasoned.

The activity just so happened to occur right next to Milo's bed. Everyone in the room was privy to the dirty talk and moans, all silently betting for the duration.

Atlas bet three hours. He knew who the seasoned gladiator was and knew their stamina. But not their newbie partner's.

He was dozing off soon after making his private bet, but some extra rustling entered his ears.

It was Milo, who, in a blink, had left the room. Atlas laid still for awhile, staring at the entrance. All the second day, Atlas made attempts at approaching Milo, who once again isolated himself, walking aimlessly about the barracks, but as soon as Atlas took a step forward, he would rethink and distance himself five more steps. Such degradation.

He prayed someone else would bear the weight of becoming Milo's companion. But, for some reason, no one even looked at him. As if on purpose.

Atlas knew, the night before when he approached Milo, everyone was secretly staring. Could it be, by approaching Milo, everyone thought Milo was "marked?"

Did Atlas ruin any chance of having someone else repair Milo?

That second day, Atlas only managed to approach Milo twice. And when he got "close," Milo purposefully  _avoided_ him. The action, all by itself somehow, completely discouraged Atlas. He didn't know how he managed to approach the second time. There was no hope for a third after Milo looked Atlas right in the eye and subtly shook his head.

_"No. You can't talk to me."_

Atlas didn't know what he was feeling, or why he was feeling that way. This whole ordeal was abnormal. When he wanted to approach someone, he approached them. When he wanted to establish dominance, he did so.

So why couldn't he talk with Milo? He had every right to do it.

Atlas hated how he stared at the entrance for an hour before finally becoming angry enough to leave his niche in the wall and the sleeping room full of very awake intimacy.

The night was very cold, but the barrack walls were kept warm by orange circles of ethereal light.

Under one such circle, pressed into a corner, Milo sat quietly. He chose the end of a hall, just outside of the cafeteria. Just far enough to not hear the intimacy in the sleeping room.

Milo glanced up at Atlas and brought his knees up, folding his arms on top. The golden bracelets around his wrists clinked together, almost sounding delicate.

Atlas's eyes shifted around the hallway for a moment, then he chose to lean against the same wall Milo touched, but didn't come too close. One yard should be good enough.

"Don't you have friends?" Milo asked out of nowhere, his voice quiet.

Why would he have friends?

Milo met Atlas's gaze and they stared at each other silently, until Milo sighed and leaned his head back. He swallowed, and Atlas watched his strong neck. Milo had a round face, but a strong jaw too. Kind of like a round square look. With Milo's large stature, he should look formidable.

But as soon as the face is reached, not a single person would be intimidated. His large eyes and freckles gave off a boyish look. Not to mention his long blonde hair. It reached a few inches past his hips, and curled at the ends. His bangs curled a bit more, framing his face.

"Is it..." Milo began, "Is it normal for people to have sex in there?"

"Where else would they have sex?" Atlas countered.

"Around so many people, I mean."

"Everyone is everywhere. Might as well."

"Might as well," Milo muttered.

Atlas eyed him. "You people are so strange. Sex is a harmless act. If you cannot sleep in the same room as this act takes place, you will spend every night here."

" _I'm_ strange?" Milo looked to Atlas incredulously, nearly sounding offended. "You stalked me all day yesterday, and did absolutely nothing else. How am I strange?"

"I am not strange," Atlas turned his head away.

Milo snorted.

"You're annoying," Atlas hissed beneath his breath.

"And you're awkward."

Awkward. The mere word brought heat up from Atlas's chest to his throat. He bit his tongue and turned on his heel, leaving Milo once more.

Atlas was so angry, he couldn't think of a new name for Milo. Names were hard to come up with, especially when a name was already established.

He returned to his bed, the two individuals still going strong. Atlas wondered how they established their companionship. Although, it turned out they didn't seem to be too friendly.

"Stop talking already and fuck me faster," one hissed.

"I'll say whatever I please. Nag me again and I'll go slower."

Their bickering was swallowed up in kisses, and the extra bit of intimacy seemed to smooth away their rough edges, and there was no more bickering.

Atlas forgot. Even those who didn't like each other much could still like each other in other ways. 

There was another person that night who left the room, and it was none other than the man who lost his Lory. Atlas recalled the first night of the grace period, when that man was fighting to keep two beds. His own bed, and the bed of his Lory.

Atlas ended the conflict quickly, telling the man to take his Lory's bed. There were extra beds, but their bed was situated in a comfortable spot, where the hot afternoon sun didn't reach. Atlas often found the man and his Lory lying comfortably in the shade, doing nothing but lying close together.

He often didn't understand such an act. It wasn't even an act. They were doing nothing.

When Atlas woke, at the first signs of daylight, he found the man, who he now privately dubbed Lorytwo, had not returned to his bed. Nor Milo.

Atlas left the sleeping room, and peered down the hall towards the cafeteria. Along the wall, Milo and Lorytwo were sitting together, chatting quietly. How long have they been talking?

All night?

He should have been utterly relieved. Someone else took up the burden to keep Milo company, someone who knew how. But Atlas found himself displeased. At least his irritation subsided a bit outside in the courtyard as he trained.

His routine took two hours. Atlas kept his body in top condition, stretching every muscle he could find, ripping that muscle at least once, if he could. His goal wasn't really to gain anymore muscle, but to retain just the right amount of strength. Atlas favored his agility, speed and technique above all else.

The morning sun was coming in hot, and after his routine, he was drenched in sweat, more so than usual. He pushed himself harder in his state of irritation.

It wasn't unusual, to find that a few gladiators were hanging groggily out the courtyard windows, eyeballing Atlas. He was irritated to find Milo and Lorytwo sharing a window, squished together. They watched him intently, and sometimes one would say something to the other.

What were they talking about?

How come they were so close already?

Atlas knew the answer, he just couldn't put it to words.

His routine ended, and he was still angry. Atlas removed his leather tie from his hair, running his fingers through it and moving it out of his face.

A figure stepped out in front of him, blocking his way.

Atlas shot his gaze upward. An oval faced man smiled at him with all his teeth. He leaned on the courtyard entrance languidly, his robe loosely tied and falling off a shoulder. He was riddled with hickies.

"Atlas, right? I could go another several rounds with you," said the man. He was a newbie. And cocky. Also one of the individuals having intimacy with a seasoned gladiator.

Atlas didn't respond. He shoved past the man and removed his robes as he traversed to the showers. He sensed another troublesome individual. Specifically one who will chase after Atlas.

Should he save himself the trouble soon and beat up this individual? Or wait to see what happens? Atlas often preferred having a reason to attack someone, it allows him to go further than necessary.

Though he looks forward to the grace period, his hand often still itches for blood and for an ache in his knuckles.

He will wait.

Oh, but he didn't have to wait for long. This individual was by far the most bold and cocky newbie of them all. Atlas knew he entered the showers with him, but paid him no mind, since the man started up a shower as well.

But soon he approached, and with utter disregard for his life, he pushed Atlas against the smooth tiled wall. This individual pressed his body to Atlas's back, grabbing Atlas down below.

"Hey, why the surprise? Didn't you invite me?" the man murmured into his ear.

No, Atlas did not. What gave this person that ridiculous notion?

The man's fingers smoothed down Atlas's right shoulder, down his bicep and ended there. "Hmm, you'd be perfect if you didn't have this unfortunate stump."

Next the man knew, his nose was broken, his hair was grabbed, and Atlas dragged him out of the showers. The man struggled and cursed, trying to get to his feet, but Atlas was too fast.

Everyone heard the commotion, and a crowd gathered, watching as Atlas threw the man into the courtyard. He hit the ground, a naked heap with a nose gushing blood.

Atlas didn't remove his collar. There was no need to display what his power could do.

"Stand!" Atlas shouted.

The man stood, wobbled on his feet, and spat out blood. His shoulders rose and fell rapidly by the force of his rageful breaths. This individual saw Atlas's ruthlessness during orientation, there was some hesitation, but his cockiness got the better of him. He charged.

Atlas dodged his fist and dragged his own into the man's stomach, grabbed him by the neck and slammed him down into the ground. He took the man's broken nose into his fingers and pulled.

He screamed, swinging yet another fist. This fist was clumsier, Atlas caught it, and one by one, he broke each of the man's fingers. Atlas left the man there in a screaming, crying heap.

Atlas passed by the staring crowd, flipping his hair off of his shoulder. Without turning around, he spoke loudly.

"Next gladiator to touch me loses their hand."

He finished taking his shower in peace.

As soon as he was out, Atlas was greeted by Sift's glossy black mask and their scarred hands carrying his robes.

Atlas dressed as Sift spoke. "Master Rhys has delivered a magnificent breakfast spread in honor of the merits you have brought the kingdom, the colosseum, and your barracks. He has a special treat sent just for you as well."

He was not in the mood for gifts. However, despite Sift being his "personal" servant, they relay everything back to Master Rhys, including details on Atlas's mood, and, if Sift comes across it, who he has slept with. Master Rhys doesn't seem to mind too much when Atlas has sex with someone, perhaps because, in the end, Atlas belongs to Master Rhys.

So, with Sift nearby, Atlas shouldn't refuse Master Rhys's gift, whatever it may be.

Since the commotion, everyone was up, the cafeteria was filled with about seventy individuals, all varying in liveliness, all loud for different reasons. Either anger or joy as they fought over all the new and delicious foods that were piled high on one long table.

"I will go get your treat, Atlas," Sift bowed their head and retreated from the cafeteria.

Atlas walked into the cafeteria, approaching the table full of food and grabbing himself a plate. As soon as he was nearby, the rowdiness between gladiators subsided a bit.

The spread of food was indeed magnificent. All sorts of meats, fruits and vegetables created a bright array of colors. And green too. Atlas wasn't tempted by anything he didn't recognize, and put simple foods on his plate, like a hard boiled egg, slices of chicken and beef, carrots, and a slice of watermelon.

Plate in hand, Atlas chose the least crowded stone table, far away from everyone else. This table had two chatting occupants, but as soon as Atlas set down his plate, the two fled. He sat down and glanced at their fleeing backs, then lifted his head to the glass dome above the cafeteria. The sky had quickly become an intense blue, with the sun peeking out, as if spying upon the gladiators. Little brown things darted about in the sky.

Atlas pursed his lips and let out a tiny whistle.

Immediately, a tiny brown head popped up from the sandstone ledge of the dome. It turned it's head this way and that, tweeting softly.

Atlas picked out the watermelon seeds from his slice and settled the seeds on the empty stone seat next to him.

The little thing instantaneously zoomed downward and landed beside him. Atlas covered his mouth with his hand, quietly watching the tiny thing. It was brown, save for the blue feathers at the end of its tail. As the thing bent down, its tail flared out wider.

Lightly, Atlas brushed his finger along the tail. The thing chirped, and pecked at his finger. Its beak was half the size of his fingernail. He held his palm out, and the thing hopped up and flopped over. It unfolded another pair of talons, stretching out all four of its legs comfortably. With a thumb, Atlas touched each of its four paws, and each hooked their talons onto him.

Atlas settled the tiny creature down and bid quietly, "Finish your breakfast."

The creature did as it was told, almost. It saved a seed in its beak and briefly rubbed its head against his hand before fluttering away.

"So you do have a friend."

Atlas jumped and shot his gaze to Milo's. He had never been too close to Milo while he was standing, so he underestimated his height. Milo was a towering individual, with a threatening body, but such a gentle face. Could this person become useful, or must Atlas bear the weight of another failure?

Milo carried with him a plate piled high with food, and there was something of a smile on his lips as he asked, "May I sit with you?"

Why ... would Milo sit with him?

Atlas stared hard at Milo, trying to gauge why he would want to sit with Atlas. Protection? Did he hear Atlas was going to receive a treat?

He couldn't find a solid reason. So, Atlas nodded subtly, casting his eyes downward.

Milo sat close, but left a seat between them. "I've heard many stories about the colosseum. I never expected one to be like this."

Atlas pressed the pad of his finger to the hard boiled egg, and the shell slowly started peeling itself. "What stories?"

Milo watched the egg peel itself for a second, then softly spoke, "That the royal heirs to the twelve kingdoms were kept in dark, cramped dungeons underground, living in their own filth, then shoved into the arena everyday. I heard the royal heirs were also used as batteries to run the K'reche Tribes' flying ships, and forced into their armies. Enslaved in brothels or taken to "farms" to be bred like cattle."

Atlas didn't know about "batteries" or flying ships, nor brothels.

"I don't know what batteries are. But I and some of the gladiators here were bred."

Milo's eyes widened. "How...?"

"What do you mean how? The woman is given seed. Injection or sex. It is up to the owner." Atlas bit into his boiled egg while Milo stared at the food in front of him, his mouth hidden in his hand.

They were silent for a while, until Atlas asked, "Where did Master Rhys pluck you from?"

Milo's eyes were fixed to his plate, and he appeared to swallow with difficulty before he replied with a strained voice. "The Valily farmlands, in the kingdom of Carvess."

"You're from a farm? What royal bloodlines were you bred from?"

Milo shook his head, closing his eyes. " _Not_  that kind of farm. A normal farm. We grew corn, wheat, and raised cows. And I wasn't "bred" from royal bloodlines."

Atlas was confused. "Or course you were. Your energy is the most powerful I've ever seen. Only royal blood has the sort of power we possess."

"I wouldn't know," Milo muttered. "There's a difference between being bred and being born, you know."

"What difference?" Atlas glared.

"I'm a person. Not a dog or cow."

"I don't understand," Atlas spoke his thought aloud.

Milo finally met Atlas's stare, his big eyes wide, brows drawn together and pulled upward. It was a look of sadness. "We have thoughts and feelings, Atlas. Desires and dreams and so much possibility. People can love and care for each other. The world is vast and beautiful, and we're meant to explore it, unhindered. We are our own masters. Who moves your body? Who feels your feelings? Is it Master Rhys? Or is it  _you_?"

Atlas's chest flared with an unfamiliar, uncomfortable heat. It felt like anger and confusion and fear, creating an inexplicable new emotion.

_We are our own masters?_

Master Rhys is his master.

The colosseum is Atlas's world, and he has explored it.

Master Rhys commands his body.

Atlas has no desires and dreams. Everything he could ever want is in this colosseum. Food, water, a bed, and the blood of his opponents.

His hand clenched into a fist. His voice was deep and strained with rage as he hissed slowly, " _Leave_."

Suddenly, and somehow not so suddenly, Milo's large hand gently touched Atlas's fist, "Atlas-"

This single gentle touch felt more violating than the fool with broken fingers. Atlas, however, did not tear Milo's hand from his wrist. No, what he did was perplexing, and utterly childish.

Atlas grabbed the cake off of Milo's plate and shoved it into his freckle face, knocking Milo off of his seat. In a mess, Milo blinked up at Atlas with wide eyes, frosting in his eyelashes, and his mouth agape.

For the life of him, Atlas could not control his breathing, his shoulders bouncing up and down, his very spine shaking.

"Why did you approach me?" Atlas demanded. "What could I give you?"

Milo replied slowly, wiping the cake from his face. "... I thought I could give you someone to talk to."

Those wide eyes were similar to the eyes of a gladiator in the arena kneeling before Atlas, feeling helplessness. Despite Atlas having every right to feel wronged, he suddenly felt that he had wronged this Milo.

Atlas couldn't bear the weight of those eyes any longer, and swept out of the quieted cafeteria. Sift had come along since who-knows-when with a thin, familiar box lined in gold paint. Sift thought to speak, but wilted away as they were met with Atlas's sharp, ruthless gaze.

He retired to the sleeping room, taking a large blanket and stuffing its corners into cracks in the walls, then hiding away in his niche.

Milo has his companion now. Atlas can stop trying to do such fruitless, demeaning tasks as speaking and being familiar with this Milo, who had a dangerous effect upon Atlas's once sound mind.

The tournaments. Just five months, and the tournaments can begin again, and perhaps this Milo could die!

○°☆°○

Atlas awoke to riotous, drunken laughter and horrible singing. Jakar was holding a party. Usually, after two nights and three days, newbies are more relaxed and acquainted with each other. That is when Jakar holds a party in the courtyard, teaching everyone how to dance dances, setting up little games. These games often involved drinking, though not arm wrestling or singing.

He won't be able to sleep with so much drunken scream laughing. Might as well watch.

Finding a perch on a windowsill, Atlas swung a leg slowly out in the courtyard, half of his body in warmth, half in chill from the cold desert night, only slightly warmed by seventy bodies.

The singing contest was going terribly. Everyone sat drinking while one stood, singing some sort of song. If they were instantly bad, the crowd heckled and laughed.

"Can someone who really knows to sing PLEASE sing!?" someone called impatiently. "Don't let the alcohol fool you!"

"Jakar, sit down! Everyone knows you sing, but you got horrible songs," Jakar's friend yanked at his collar. Jakar laughed loudly. His head was full of dark brown curls and his nose was big and hooked, grinning incessantly. He's been the same since Atlas could remember. He is the only outsider taken by Master Rhys who lived past five years, and despite losing many friends, he still held his head high.

"Hey! Atlas! You got a song for us?" a woman called.

Many heads turned around, peering at Atlas curiously. Atlas responded by staring back, his eyes shifting from face to hopeful face. His chest began to jitter, so he turned his head away completely.

There was a chorus of "encouraging heckling" that rose up, until a hollow, wooden beat sounded off. There was a deep, steady beat, and a higher, more fluctuating sound.

Atlas eyed the crowd, and someone shifted just enough for him to spot Milo. He had a bucket in front of him, beating his palm on the bucket's side with a wooden cup in his other hand, hitting it on top of the bucket. Atlas couldn't believe a cohesive tune was coming from a cup and bucket.

Then, Milo started singing.

"Heyo!

Oh stand up!

The road is long

But I've got strong

So heyo! So rise up!

I'll find a way to go

And sow my stars in the sky,"

Milo's voice was neither bad nor extraordinary. But it was pleasant. And the song had great cheer, earning whoops and encouraging claps. The tune created by the wooden items certainly helped as well.

The song had two short stanzas, and Jakar quickly joined in. Others did as well, and though the song morphed into a crowded jumble of words, it ended in delighted laughter and giggling. Friends shoved at each other playfully for their terrible singing, and even seasoned gladiators that were often sour at each other leaned together in laughter.

The scene played out in a harmony Atlas has never witnessed before. Jakar's parties are usually full of fun and play and alcohol, but none felt as light as this ...

Atlas swung his leg listlessly, lightly tugging on his hair as he watched the gladiators. Milo had won the singing contest, now, on a stone bench, arm wrestling had begun. Milo joined in as well.

Now this prompted Atlas to hop off his perch and insert himself into the crowd. Some newbies saw him coming and moved out of the way, but otherwise Atlas had to squeeze through to see the competition.

Though Milo hasn't been trained, his arms were very strong. Every opponent, especially the newbies, were defeated. Even Jakar, who was nearest Milo's stature and strength. Jakar did, however, give Milo trouble. His cheeks had become red from effort, and his gentle round eyes sharpened in concentration.

When the spot in front of Milo was left empty, Atlas found himself taking it, and resting his elbow on the bench, palm open.

Milo's face was back to being gentle again, and wary of Atlas. He accommodated him, and switched to his left arm. Milo's hand engulfed Atlas's. It was calloused, but gentle and warm.

"Go!" Jakar initiated.

Milo's knuckles struck the stone bench. No one had time to encourage, deter or feel tense. Milo stared, wide eyed, at his hand for a good moment before sputtering and breaking out into laughter.

Atlas's ears were filled with the deep, hearty laugh, so much so the crowd became white noise.

Again. Laugh again.

"I'm sorry, did that happen?" Milo laughed. "Can I get a second chance?"

It took Atlas a second too long to register the question. Milo's eyes were far too bright. He offered the loser his hand again. And again, Atlas was held in Milo's warm fingers.

"Go!"

There was a struggle, Milo was using all his strength, but he once more witnessed defeat. Atlas didn't make Milo's knuckles hit the stone as hard.

"After training, you may last longer," said Atlas.

Milo grinned, "I'm not sure about that. Say, could I have my hand back?"

Atlas blinked, and tilted his head down to his hand, tightly gripping Milo's still. He snatched it away.

It seemed everyone's interest in arm wrestling dissipated, so Jakar moved onto a different game. And Atlas found himself sitting in a circle beside Milo. How did he get there? Why did he join? He's seen this game played before, it is hardly riveting.

Servants, during Jakar's parties, are usually very close at hand to serve alcohol more readily, giving each person in the circle three full, large mugs. Not everyone joined, perhaps only thirty while the rest watched.

"Alright! Never have I ever ..." Jakar's eyes shifted over to Milo, "Stuck my arm in a cow's ass."

Everyone laughed and laughed harder, nearly into hysterics, as Milo and one other man drank from their cups. Atlas was bewildered.

"Why?" Atlas asked.

Milo merely smiled, "To check if the cow's pregnant."

Huh.

The gladiator next to Jakar went. "Never have I ever gotten stabbed."

"You've been lucky, ya little worm!" a woman laughed as nearly everyone drank.

"Never have I ever had sex."

"Leon, you make out with three people every day!"

"I like kissing! The rest is gross!" Leon yelled.

"Hey, what kind of sex? Like sticking it in or what?" a man asked

Milo laughed into his cup and answered loudly. "I believe sex is the consensual manipulation of genitals for pleasure with a partner."

He sounded so confident in this description that everyone, except for a handful of gladiators, drank up.

"Never have I ever slept with Gregory."

At least twenty gladiators took a drink.

"Tryin to call me a slut, Taylor?" Gregory laughed.

"Bitch, you've been saying you'll get to ne, but you haven't!" Taylor whined.

"Tonight then! Don't get too drunk."

The next gladiator scanned the circle and her eyes landed on Atlas. "Never have I ever wanted to fuck Atlas."

Hans made a blatant display of lifting his cup high up, hitting it against Gregory's, and the two, as well as six other individuals, downed their drinks.

Atlas noticed Milo didn't touch his cup.

"Never have I ever kissed Master Rhys."

No one moved. Atlas angrily drank from his cup. Might as well. It wasn't a secret.

"Never have I ever given Master Rhys a blow job."

"Never have I ever fucked Master Rhys."

"Never have I ever got gifts from Master Rhys."

"Never have I ever touched Master Rhys."

"Never have I ever been in Master Rhys's favor."

"Never have I ever killed for Master Rhys."

"Never have I ever been called Master Rhys's slut."

Master Rhys. Master Rhys. Master Rhys. The gladiator's voices had quickly become venomous. Each one silently declaring alliance with every individual who had nothing to do with Master Rhys. Resentment filled the air, so much so it nearly had a stench of its own.

Atlas finished his last mug, his chest and stomach burning, the corners of his eyes red. The world spun on its axis, and he felt the weight of the stars on his bowed head.

The world only stopped spinning when a deep voice spoke up beside him.

"Never have I ever ... seen such a disgusting display of victim blaming in my entire life."

Atlas lifted his head and found Milo downing his entire mud and slamming it to the ground. Milo tugged on Atlas's sleeve, and by some mysterious force, he was prompted to stand, unsteadily, on his feet. Milo guided him out of the courtyard.

He sat down hard, and only vaguely registered he was on his bed. His teeth were clenched as tight as his fist was. Eyes burning.

Milo knelt in front of him, grasped his hand, and one by one, gently uncurled Atlas's fingers. The skin of his palm had nearly been broken into.

"Do you need anything?" Milo asked quietly.

Atlas's jaw unclenched with difficulty. In his mind's eye, he saw himself as a statue, perfectly serene, a face as cold as ever. But that illusion came crumbling down as his voice exited, deteriorating completely with one word.

"No."

Milo remained silent for a moment, then held his arms out. "Do you need a hug?"

"I'M NOT A CHILD!" Atlas roared. Despite saying that, his head was already laid onto Milo's shoulder, hot tears escaping him, shivering so badly in rage that his breaths shuddered and his teeth nearly chattered. Milo hesitated, then closed his arms around Atlas, squeezing him tightly.

He has never been held like this before. Not by Master Rhys, or even during the few times he's had sex. Why did this feel more intimate than anything he has ever done?

This was the foreboding event he feared alcohol would create. Atlas stayed away from it all his life because he has seen what it does to gladiators.

So foolish.

Atlas had no will in him to leave the suffocating, violent comfort. He hated it with every bit of his being, and welcomed it too. Milo's arm wrapped tightly around his waist and his other hand rubbed Atlas's back.

His fingers curled into Milo's soft long hair, gripping it and Milo's robes. The man smelt earthy, yet sweet.

Nothing like the barracks at all.

○°☆°○

In the late morning, every last gladiator was dead. One would think an earthquake could erupt and the barracks would remain dead. Maybe so. At least an earthquake didn't make one inhale desert sand.

Not only was the entire barracks greeted by hangovers, but also be a raging sandstorm. Everyone woke up one by one, coughing and spewing sand, tripping out of their beds, and running into each other.

There are some things the shields just couldn't keep out, including the fine grains of sun heated sand.

Atlas inhaled sand and shot up, choking and coughing. He tried climbing out of his bed, but ended up pinning his knee in someone's gut. Milo yelped and rolled off, taking Atlas with him. His head was safe, for the floor was already covered in sand, but his lungs were crushed.

"Get! Off!" Atlas coughed.

"Sor-!" Milo instantly got a mouthful of sand.

Atlas pushed Milo off and dragged him by his collar to the cafeteria. It wasn't easy. Everyone was stumbling into the hallway, and the sandstorm flooded from every window, and especially from the wide open air courtyard. It felt as though mini tornados of sand had entered the halls.

He got into the cafeteria and Milo stumbled out of his grasp. Servants, with their meager amount of energy, only managed to keep out the sand until they were able to close the doors.

Sift came up beside Atlas. "We're missing one."

His head felt as though it were expanding and deflating with his heartbeat, and he sighed angrily. "Fine."

Atlas handed his collar to Sift, and slipped out of the cafeteria. The sand flowed around him, unable to pass through a bubble of blood orange energy.

He searched the sleeping room. No one. He searched the halls and the showers. No one. But, there was indeed someone in the courtyard, right in the middle in fact.

Through the wall of raging, golden sands, Atlas could faintly see a figure lying on the ground. He approached curiously, and his bubble passed over the top half of the figure, pushing aside all of the sand.

It was Lorytwo. Or rather, Thane.

Thane coughed and blood spewed out. He blinked up at Atlas, the white of his eyes had gone completely red, making his blue eyes startlingly bright. There were glass particles in the sandstorm.

"Get up," Atlas ordered.

"What for?" Thane spat blood, his voice hoarse. "Let me bleed out my lungs. Or I'm going to fight you. Then you'll have no choice but to kill me."

"You are no threat to me."

"Then I'll become a threat to everyone else."

Atlas was stuck. This man was willing to kill himself slowly by breathing in glass and drown in blood. What else would he be willing to do?

Master Rhys won't be pleased to see a gladiator perish outside of the arena. If Atlas remembered correctly, this man and his lover were crowd favorites. The two would always protect each other, and share victory kisses. Would the crowd still want to see Thane, or is one boring without the other?

Thane could be useless as a gladiator now. He could be kept alive until the tournaments come back around, but the crowds will not be happy to see Thane stepping into a blade.

"What will you live for?" Atlas asked.

"There's nothing."

"Not for glory?"

Thane chuckled bitterly through blood, tears streaming down his face. "What glory? I don't want to live like you, Atlas. Sad, alone, and comfortable in this prison. You don't even know what love is. Nothing can replace it."

"Love has taken you far, hasn't it?" Atlas hissed.

Thane smiled. "Yes it has. It's taken me so far out of this world. I once thought I'd snatched a star. You'll never know love, let alone what it can do."

Atlas was quiet for a moment, then sat down beside Thane. "I know it can cause irreparable damage."

The gladiator's breath staggered through his nose, a sob escaping him, along with a pitiful laugh. "If you truly knew what I'd lost, you would take pity, and kill me."

For a long time, they remain silent while the sands outside of Atlas's bubble of energy blew violently. Atlas unconsciously had a death grip on his knee. He didn't know why he wouldn't just kill Thane now. All things considered, Thane would be better off dead.

Why did Atlas care at all for this stranger?

"Lory ..." Atlas murmured, "Had great agility,"

Thane shot his gaze to Atlas, eyes becoming wide.

"I liked his ruthlessness in the arena," Atlas continued. "And his adaptability. He always ... pushed at those who mocked me. I didn't understand his kindness. Still don't."

Beside him, Thane covered his eyes, his entire body shaking as he quietly sobbed.

He didn't understand, still, why his words were worth anything to this man, much less worthy of tears. Atlas watched Thane cry, not knowing what else to do. When it comes to things like this, Atlas was admittedly helpless. He could only use what he's seen.

"Do you ..." Atlas bit his tongue, eyed the temporarily nonexistent sky, then asked clumsily, "You, do you, want ... a hug?"

Thane appeared to cry  _harder_ , and Atlas grew exceedingly uncomfortable. Does Thane want a hug or not!?

With goosebumps rising up, his hand driven by desperation, Atlas yanked Thane up by his collar and hugged him. Trying in vain to emulate the kind of hug Milo had given him. Use the shoulders, right? Atlas had only one arm, it was impossible.

Thane immediately clung to him, nearly choking him. "Milo wasn't lying, you're so goddamn awkward and weird," Thane cried into Atlas's shoulder.

Atlas growled irritatedly at the back of his throat. Why is it when he tries to comfort, or keep company, he is met with insults? Why is it that he has to lower himself like this, and even feel embarrassment? This never happened when he simply kept to himself.

They sat like this for a very long time, and Atlas's goosebumps slowly faded as he got used to the physical contact. Although not entirely. His thoughts ran back to that Milo. Last night was blurry, Atlas had no alcohol intolerance and broke down.

He hasn't cried like that in years. The last time he cried and clung to someone desperately was when he was in Master Rhys's arms, thirteen years old, with his right arm gushing blood. It was one of the worst pains in his life.

Master Rhys, while Atlas cried, whispered gently and rubbed his back,  _"This is what you deserve for your impudence. You will learn the sword again with your left, and learn it well. Or else, you will lose all of your limbs."_

Master Rhys then dug his nails into Atlas's fresh wound and growled with a pleased sneer.  _"Understand?"_

Atlas's arm ached from the memory.

Compared to that, Milo rubbed his back and said,  _"I'll stay with you as long as you want. Alright?"_

There was nothing behind his words. Not a single threat, nor an inkling of hidden motives. Atlas couldn't believe that. No one does anything without an agenda or desire.

But what was Atlas doing right now, holding Thane in an endless hug? What could Atlas gain from this? Killing Thane would have been easier, Master Rhys would be angry, but not enough to punish Atlas. Thane may not bring any more glory to the colosseum.

Atlas decided to blame that Milo. Everything went awry when he came along.

"Hey," Thane spoke up hoarsely. "I need you to get me something."

○°☆°○

Atlas kicked open the doors to the cafeteria and dragged Thane inside. The servants closed the doors quickly, and several took Thane off of his hand.

Milo immediately ran over to see about his companion. Atlas stood off to the side, leaning against a table as Sift took it upon themselves to clip his collar back in place.

"Atlas, about your treat-"

"Contact Master Rhys," Atlas interrupted. "I don't want his gift. I want access to the incineration room. Nothing has been burned yet, right?"

"Yes, but ... why?" Sift's voice is usually calm and doesn't often betray any emotion, but today they sounded bewildered.

"Why doesn't matter. If Master Rhys is adverse, then tell him I will come to his chambers tomorrow night in exchange for access."

Sift faltered for a moment, then bowed their head, and made their way out of the cafeteria.

Atlas breathed out slowly and his eyes shifted around the cafeteria. Nearly every gladiator passed out on the ground, or in their arms at the tables. Much too hungover to care for the sandstorm, let alone where to sleep.

Jakar was used to hangovers. From afar, he eyed Atlas and winked, returning to a quiet conversation with a friend. Jakar wasn't just the only outsider to live past five years, but also the only gladiator who didn't get cocky after Atlas slept with him.

Atlas had always been attracted to Jakar. There was also, admittedly, a small part of Atlas that wanted to be Jakar's friend. Atlas killed that particular desire quickly.

At the time, Atlas only experienced real sex once, and he was very much incapable of approaching Jakar. But apparently Atlas had been staring too much, so Jakar approached him instead. Atlas could vividly recall the four hours Jakar had him tied around his finger. Then that was it. Jakar never touched him unsolicited, never bragged, nor thought he was under Atlas's good graces and protection.

This has kept Atlas's attraction still present, though he didn't necessarily desire Jakar.

"I can't remove the glass from his lungs," a servant murmured anxiously.

Atlas looked up. The servants weren't pure blooded royals. Their energy was meager. But if they combine their energies, it should be enough.

"Stop! You're going to rip his lungs out instead."

Atlas looked to Milo, who quickly pushed away the servants' combined hands. "Are any of you trained?"

"We know ... the basics," a servant admitted.

Milo rubbed his fingers between his brows, glanced at Atlas, then did a double take. Then looked down at his wrists. Each wrist had two thin golden bracelets.

" _No_ ," Atlas hissed when Milo opened his mouth.

Milo's eyes were wide, once more appearing helpless and pitiful. "Just one. That's all I need to get the glass out. His eyes can be washed out with water, but not his lungs. You can have your fingers at the back of my head, to shut me down at any moment." Milo stared at him pleadingly. "Please?"

He knew it. Milo wanted his kindness repaid.

Atlas gritted his teeth, eyes boring into the sandstone at his feet. Fuck. His efforts in getting Thane to come back would all be wasted if the glass couldn't be removed. But Atlas couldn't just take off one of Milo's collars . .. He did so only once, to prevent Milo from getting sick, or worse, fall into a comatose state.

Hearing Thane's strained breathing, Atlas unclenched his jaw and glared at Milo. He approached slowly. "One wrong move, and you will regret it."

Milo nodded.

Atlas removed his collar, and crouched beside Milo, who presented his wrist. Atlas removed one of the bracelets, and as soon as it fell away, Atlas's hand gripped the back of Milo's neck. Milo could already feel the heat of Atlas's energy.

Milo moved cautiously, and untied the sash to Thane's robe, pushing it open. Atlas watched as Milo's eyes flooded with a gentle green light, and with a swift hand, Milo began to draw strange Runes upon Thane's skin with this green light, arranging the Runes into a circle. Then, Milo pressed his palm into Thane's chest.

The Runes nestled away into Thane's skin, and while continuing to put pressure onto him, Milo's hand slowly moved up Thane's chest and gently along his neck. With his other hand, Milo tilted Thane's head back.

"Open your mouth," Milo bid softly.

Thane complied, his red eyes squeezing shut. Gradually, small, glittering crystals rose up out of his body. The amount of glass was startling, and Atlas watched as it all gathered together above Milo's palm, squeezing so tightly together. With a heated flash, Milo's energy withdrew, and a glass marble fell into his palm.

Despite the remaining bracelet burning Milo's wrist, he went ahead and withdrew the glass from Thane's eyes as well. Once all was done, Thane had passed out, and Milo dripped sweat from not only the burning pain of the bracelet, but the sheer energy it took to use said energy.

Atlas put the second bracelet back onto Milo. He couldn't help but feel sour, sour towards Thane. Over and over again, the sight of Milo's hand on Thane's body played in Atlas's head.

Suddenly, Milo grasped Atlas's hand, and placed the glass marble in his palm.

"There, a thank you gift," said Milo, giving Atlas a small, weary smile.

Atlas stared at the marble.

A gift.

A really useless one at that.

He didn't know where to put it. Atlas simply kept it tucked under his pinky as he clipped his collar into place. He really ... felt strange towards this marble, and couldn't stop peeking at it, or Milo from the table he settled at.

No one in the barracks had personal items other than clothes. But even those are replaced by the servants at the end of each week. Perhaps if one was lucky, they would find a stray feather from a bird. The only semblance of a "personal item" were the trophy weapons gladiators could claim from the arena.

Master Rhys occasionally gives Atlas gifts. Treats that he liked, and beautiful daggers to add to his collection.

Atlas was out of energy. He was sat at a table, close to the cafeteria doors, and the howling winds and the sands scraping every surface filled his ears. His eyes slid shut heavily, lightly feeling the glass marble between his fingers. He could feel a small buzz from it, a warm presence. Some of Milo's energy was stuck inside this marble.

His power was too great. Only one bracelet had been taken off. One, and he was able to draw out tiny particles of glass and condense them into a perfect marble. How did Master Rhys ever capture this man?

Atlas's eyes opened along with one of the cafeteria doors. Servants were able to keep out the storm long enough to allow Sift inside.

Sift could have a small shield around their body, and was able to keep off most of the sand. Sift calmly approached Atlas, and from their large sleeves, Sift placed a familiar, thin box in front of Atlas.

"Master Rhys will see you tomorrow night at nine," Sift confirmed. "He will give you access after."

Atlas nodded silently and waved his hand. Sift bowed their head and sifted away, although not too far. Sift knows Atlas doesn't like having them nearby constantly. They stay away just far enough to be called over when needed.

Curiously, Atlas lifted the cover to the thin box set before him. On one side, there were two rows of sweet treats tucked in red velvet. On the other side, a beautifully gleaming, small dagger. He knew it was hide grade just by looking at it. Its size was perfect to conceal in the arena.

As for the treats, he recognized them. Atlas only had them once before in his life. The first time he was brought to Master Rhys's chambers. Dark chocolate on the outside, with orange flavored cream on the inside. The first treat he ever had and ever relished before Master Rhys forced him to his bed.

Atlas closed the box and turned his hand over, allowing Milo's marble to roll out from under his pinky into his palm. It glittered. Prominent pieces of glass on the inside of the marble danced just like stars in the dim light pouring in from the dome above.

The corners of his mouth lifted gently.

○°☆°○

Sandstorms last for a long time, and this one lasted until sunset. It was a miserable time for everyone to be trapped in the cafeteria. Its poor design allowed it to become an incineration room all on its own when the sun shone down through the dome.

Every gladiator there sweated through their clothes and the sand clinging to them didn't help their moods. This was a solid three hours. Atlas was born and raised in the desert, his skin was dark. He was made to withstand this kind of heat, but the newbies were not.

The cafeteria became grossly humid from seventy individuals in there.

Milo had stuck nearby Thane for some time, but during this heat, he sat with Atlas. Milo's bangs were damp from sweat and appeared to curl a bit more, and his face was flushed pink. His eyes were glossy. And he discarded his robes, leaving him in only loose bell bottom pants.

Atlas couldn't, for the life of him, stop staring.

"How did you know how to remove the glass?" Atlas asked to distract himself.

Milo smiled. "I'm a doctor."

A doctor.

"Why?" Atlas blurted.

"What do you mean, "why?"" Milo laughed.

Atlas didn't reply, and Milo didn't explain himself. Why would this man be a doctor? What powerful individual like him, with his natural strength and overwhelming capacity for energy, would lower himself to the position of a doctor?

Then again, this Milo seemed too soft to be anything greater.

"Thane ..." Milo spoke up after some time, "Was trying to kill himself. Right?"

Atlas nodded.

"He seems stable for now ... what did you say to him?"

He would not  _dare_  expose such details.

Milo simply smiled softly at Atlas's silence. "One minute, you're ruthless. The next, you are kind. Awkward ... but kind."

Atlas's soul shook. He glared nastily at Milo and hissed, "I am not  _kind_."

Still, this Milo smiled. His eyes became inexplicably warmer. Atlas was desert born. The heat was nothing new to him, he wore his robe still and even enjoyed the heat that pushed into his bones. But, under that warm gaze, Atlas's body heated up far beyond the tolerance he'd cultivated.

"I am not," Atlas once again found himself saying, and not saying very well. His voice wasn't nearly as harsh as he meant it to be.

"Then I suppose you were being irrevocably cruel to the little bird you fed and held?" Milo leaned his head into his hand, smiling, his cheek squished and his eyes sparkling.

As if it knew it was being talked about, the little "bird" (as Milo had called it), peeked its head out over the stone ledge of the dome.

Atlas couldn't breathe under Milo's gaze.

"Leave," Atlas whispered.

Milo's smile and the sparks in his eyes seemed to dim a bit. "Alright."

As soon as Milo was distanced, Atlas was able to calm down, although his stomach jittered for some time.

He didn't want to be attracted to this man. Why this one? Why the gentle giant who somehow became a doctor despite the power he possesses? Why the one person who might get Atlas killed prematurely?

Despite his grievances and anger, Atlas still couldn't rip his eyes away from Milo.

Surprisingly, the sandstorm ended a few hours early. At seven in the evening, with the sun still burning angrily. The cafeteria doors were finally opened, and two and a half feet of sand spilled inside.

Everyone was begrudgingly awake. On days like these, every single gladiator and servant worked together carefully to clean up the sand. Atlas was eager to distract himself, so gave his collar to Sift and sent out two or three geometric bubbles of energy. Their geometric lines and corners moved like live crystals or warped like that of a kaleidoscope.

These bubbles were about as large as himself, so they collected the bulk of the sand. The servants did the harder task of removing the finer sand from the walls and corners.

Despite being careful, the gladiators were greeted with another layer of sand and sweat. But in an hour or two, most of the glass laden sand was at least visibly gone.

Servants gathered up every blanket, sheet and pillow. The vast amount of newbies were too tired to care for their strange shyness, and shed their clothes like every other individual and raced to the showers.

Atlas welcomed the cold shower immensely. He washed head to toe twice. By now, gladiators were joking lazily with one another, their moods only slightly lifted.

While Atlas enjoyed being clean, he couldn't enjoy for long. Adjacent to him, he realized Milo had taken up the free showerhead. Atlas became frozen in place, eyes tracing down Milo's body. His muscles weren't sharply defined, but his arms were large, and his back arched upwards to his broad shoulders elegantly. Thick thighs led down to strong calves. Milo had both strength and speed.

The brightly colored tattoos upon his back seemed brighter in the pure white of the shower room.

Water droplets cascaded from Milo's eyelashes, of which veiled his far off gaze. Atlas couldn't swallow as he watched Milo tilt his head back and open his full lips for the cold water.

"Milo. Do you want to fuck?"

Abruptly, Milo's eyes snapped open, he breathed in water and immediately began sputtering and coughing. From his ears to his chest, he glowed red.

Any gladiator with ears silenced and stated dumbfounded at Atlas.

"I-" Milo tried to speak in between coughing and blushing even more. Atlas stared at him hard, but patiently, his deep dark gaze unwavering.

Upon reevaluation, Atlas decided to specify. "I want you to fuck me. So?"

Milo, covering his mouth and shook his head and between coughs, he replied, "N, no thank, thank you."

At that, Milo walked quickly, fleeing the showers. Fleeing Atlas.

Gregory cried after Milo, "ARE YOU CRAZY!? Atlas, why  _that guy_!? I beg of you, say those blessed words to me!"

He wasn't sure what he was feeling. Atlas hasn't experienced attraction this strong. Nor has he ever been rejected before. And certainly hasn't seen a man react so strongly before either.

Atlas, somehow, didn't feel angry or deterred.

He threw a sharp glare at Gregory and turned off his shower, leaving the room. Sift came along, giving Atlas knew clothes. He threw a robe on and approached the sleeping room with long, purposeful strides.

Milo was just tying his sash on, still blushing red, when Atlas spoke up.

"Why?"

Milo's eyes were wide as he looked to Atlas. "There doesn't have to be a reason-"

"What is it you do not find attractive?" Atlas asked. "My arm?"

Milo frowned. "No. Admittedly, I do think you're very attractive, but-"

Atlas approached, only stopping until he was less than a foot away from Milo. This man was more than a head taller than Atlas. "Then there is no problem."

His fingers dove into Milo's wet hair, gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down. Atlas kissed those full pink lips, pressing his body flush against Milo's, rising on his toes and wrapping his arm around Milo's shoulders. His lips were the most lush pair Atlas had ever experienced.

Milo rejected him, and yet, as soon as Atlas kissed him, he sighed through his nose, tilting his head and moving his lips with Atlas's in a gentle fervor.

But very quickly, Milo pressed forward more deeply, his tongue delving into Atlas's mouth, his large hands gripping his waist.

A quiet moan left Atlas and he murmured against the other's lips, "Milo."

Then, Atlas was plucked from his lustful haze. With a soft smack, their lips parted, and Milo gently pushed him away by his shoulders. Atlas stared up at him wide eyed.

Milo remained red from his ears to his neck, unwilling to meet Atlas's gaze. "That's enough."

His voice was gentle. Yet firm. Atlas couldn't at all understand how this was "enough," nor why Milo would stop if he'd been enjoying it.

Is it because Atlas spoke?

 _"Do not speak. You are better quiet_ ," Master Rhys's order arose faintly at the back of Atlas's mind.

Milo quietly fled the room. Atlas eyed he broad back, and found two gladiators had been peeking inside. They jumped upon being met with Atlas's fierce stare, and fled as well. Did Milo lose interest because Atlas spoke, or because he wanted privacy? There was no such thing in the barracks.

Now, Atlas was feeling deterred. Confusion seems to have become his norm now.

Why was he rejected?


	3. Milo Hale and Pain

He has been studying medicine and the human body since he was fourteen. By time he was twenty, five years ago, Milo Hale passed every exam he could possibly pass. Aside from being smart, his Core emitted and produced three times the average amount of Ether. But Milo kept this hidden as best he could. He never knew why, but his parents insisted. 

It could be … that he truly is a descendent from one or two of the twelve Royal families. And his parents were trying to protect him from the prying eyes of the disgusting K'reche Tribes. 

Milo worked part time as a doctor to his village and the nearby cities, and part time as His Majesty the King’s Royal Physician. Milo caught King Ceryn's attention from the scores on his exams, and for five years, Milo served His Majesty, and kept his illness at bay weekly. King Ceryn was a military genius and a gentle king - Milo didn’t care for the pay or title. He kept His Majesty alive because he was one of the Four Great Minds against the K'reche Tribes. 

But now … Ceryn may not survive long without Milo’s Ether.

He already lost his mother and father when the Anathema surged into the Valily farmlands. There was no telling if his little sister made it to the Capital. Now Milo will also fail to keep a Great Mind alive, and leave his country vulnerable to the Anathema?

And Milo could do nothing but tremble in helplessness. 

There was an Anathema spy in King Ceryn's palace. How else would  _ anyone _ know the true power Milo possessed? They saw him draw King Ceryn’s soul back into his body and reported it.

Milo caused so much death, he couldn’t bear to hear his heart beating. He dreamt of healing the world, now ...  

Now, he still couldn’t breathe. Warm lips covered his own.

Milo often got woken up at the ungodly hours of night. Instead of a harsh fever or an urgent delivery, it was a very tiring, awkward man. He would rather be delivering a baby while the so-to-be-mother screamed and every one of her twenty family members fought in the background.

With care, Milo pressed his palm into Atlas’s chest and pushed him away. Atlas’s deep black eyes glinted as he glared down at Milo grumpily, his lips forming into a pout. Moonlight cast a blue gleam in Atlas’s long dark hair. Unless Atlas smiled, those eyebrows of his would constantly make him appear angry. His eyelashes that could create a sandstorm with each blink didn’t save him.

“What are doing doing?” Milo whispered tiredly. 

“Tempting you,” Atlas replied bluntly.

This man was incredibly blunt. Milo didn’t know how far that bluntness went until Atlas, in front of everyone, asked Milo if they could sleep together. Paraphrasing of course.

The culture in the barracks was of another world.

Milo rubbed his hands down his face wearily. “This is not temptation.”

“What else could it be?” Atlas asked, or rather, interrogated. This awkward person didn’t know any other way to speak. “You liked it before. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t like it again. Either way, you are mine. I can do with you whatever I please.”

Where could he even  _ begin _ to explain how awful that mentality is!?!

“Oh my gods,” Milo muttered so tiredly. “We need to talk.”

How does he teach an indoctrinated prince consent?

Milo got out from under Atlas and left the sleeping room, rubbing his temples. He’s been getting headaches more often, now that he no longer has his glasses. Milo’s eyesight isn’t too bad without them, but they still become strained at times.

Atlas followed Milo out into the courtyard, very incredibly silent. Milo found that this prince’s movements held the essence of how a predator moved. Like a dragon in the Beres Pine Forest. Completely in tune with his environment. And very comfortable too.

After talking with Thane, Milo knew a few key things about Atlas. He was born in this colosseum, and raised in it. And “bred” from the royal bloodlines of Lu’Cili and Anatori.

Anatori.

Milo knew who Atlas was. And this information needed to get out to the world. 

But how?

“I need to teach you something important,” Milo sat down in the courtyard and peered up at the endless, star dusted sky. He is so far away from home, he could see the Dragon’s River galaxy in all its glory.

“What could a doctor teach a gladiator?” Atlas asked, his tone cold and condescending. 

A doctor and a gladiator. The world is cruel, and it intends for Milo to shed blood.

“No matter status, occupation or world view, there is always something people can teach one another,” said Milo. “I need to teach you consent.”

“Consent? To yield?” Atlas sat across from him, glaring a bit at Milo. 

Sounds like Atlas hasn’t heard this word before? But he seemed to have an innate  _ sense _ of what the word was.

Milo shook his head. “Consent is another word for permission.” He was met with Atlas’s unwavering, “angry” gaze. “Um. Well, let’s start here. Whose body is this?” Milo pointed to himself.

Atlas tilted his chin up in an arrogant manner. He really had the regality of a prince. “Mine and Master Rhy’s.”

“Wrong. It is mine. Because my body is me. I am my body.” Milo pulled at the collar around his neck, “This does not define me. It is an object that doesn’t think or feel. This collar only represents something when you will it. If Rhys truly owned me, would he need a collar on me? If he truly owned me, then why do I deny it? Why, if he truly owned me, would my soul not call back to him in obedience?”

Atlas stared hard at Milo, his hand tightening into a fist.

Milo breathed out slowly. “Good. Now that we've established this body is mine, then we must establish that your body is yours.”

The prince's eyes flared with rage.

“How does my reasoning not apply to you?”

Atlas's anger faltered, a light flashing in his deep black eyes. He hissed, “Because I obey him.”

“Because he taught you to fear him. He taught you that you are lesser. But do you obey him religiously? Why, if he owns you, does he not also own your thoughts? I doubt, if he really owned you, you wouldn't think about me or Thane, or your little friend in the cafeteria. Try to refute me. I dare you.”

“HOW IS THIS A LESSON ON CONSENT!?” Atlas roared. 

“Because it is important to know that you,  _ you _ are the only person who can touch your own body freely,” Milo's voice rose in ferocity. “You are the only person who can give consent to allow others to touch your body. What you did to me wasn't temptation. It was sexual harassment. If I do not consent verbally and  _ eagerly _ , then you are violating my body. When a person does not give enthusiastic consent, they are being sexually harassed and raped. This gross mistreatment and disregard to a human's wants and safety can damage their heart, mind and soul. Atlas, yesterday night, what were you feeling?”

Atlas’s hand was so tightly clenched, Milo feared he was harming himself again.

“You need to understand why you hurt, Atlas. And what Rhys has taught you can make you hurt people in the same way he hurts you.”

The prince sat in a strained silence, staring into the ground, until his clenched hand relaxed a bit. Quietly, Atlas asked, “Then … did I hurt you?”

A certain tension in Milo’s shoulders untied, and he breathed out once more. “Not necessarily … You’re strangely endearing. I do find you attractive, but that isn’t consent. I told you ‘no.’ A person should only have to say “no” once. And they don’t need a reason. Another thing to note in regards to sex: even if a person says “yes,” they can take their consent away at any point. To have healthy sexual intimacy, it’s important to make sure that your partner is comfortable and feels safe in every way.”

“What is “endearing?”” Atlas inquired, his eyes lifting to meet Milo’s.

Milo felt a waft of heat in his ears, and he coughed. “Er, well, “lovable.””

Once more, those impossibly dark eyes stared at Milo. His eyebrows were naturally angled downward, and the shape of his eyes were particularly sharp. Thusly, always appearing angry. Milo was convinced Atlas never smiled once in his life. 

“Can I kiss you?”

His heart leapt and pumped blood up into his face. “Yes” was on the tip of Milo’s tongue. Of all places, of all situations, it had to be in a prison built upon blood with this colosseum’s peerless gladiator garnering Milo’s fancy. But why!? Atlas was nearly hostile in every situation, and was so awkward. Yes, he is gorgeous, but beauty only goes so far. Despite everything, this prince was ever so strangely endearing.

But Milo couldn’t help feeling wary. Atlas, though a victim of the K'reche Tribes, was an enemy. He is so incredibly indoctrinated that he can take off his collar and put it on again. Milo has spoken with every person in this barracks. They all agree that Atlas is powerful, with or without Ether. This prince could free these gladiators and escape.

And yet he doesn’t.

The injustice made Milo sick. He knew this view of Atlas was unreasonable. He’s a victim, the amount of mental abuse Atlas endured has brought him to this point of subjugation. Milo’s only intention, his only reason for approaching Atlas in the first place, was to undo the damage. And perhaps find a way to free everyone.

Milo thought he could spark rebellion in Atlas.

Not affection. Or desire. And certainly not vice versa!

Smiling gently, Milo replied evenly, “No.”

Atlas immediately opened his mouth, his eyes lighting up, but he faltered, then shut his mouth. 

Good gods, at least Milo succeeded in teaching Atlas about consent! And hopefully showed Atlas that he belongs to no one. Especially that monster Rhys.

 

○°☆°○

 

Rejected. Again.

But, Atlas felt better about it, somehow. His mood, however, couldn’t be anything but gloomy. His training in the early morning under the stars was subpar, so he punished himself by staying in a perfect squat for an hour. Something must always come out of his routine. If it cannot be sweat, then it will be pain.

He spent most of the day on his windowsill, watching the gladiators and staring at the marble Milo gave him. The energy still buzzed inside cheerily, and warmed his fingers.

Thane was still in the infirmary. But the man with broken fingers came out. And who would have thought that he would still be arrogant enough to boldly approach Atlas on his sil!

Atlas had been admiring the marble in a bit of a daze, but he hid it in his hand upon Broken Fingers’s presence, glaring nastily.

“You think you’re tough shit just cuz you’ve got Rhys’s dick up your ass, eh?” Broken Fingers spat. “I’ll take you down in the arena.”

“Leave.”

Broken Fingers barked out a laugh. “What’re you hiding anyway?”

Before Atlas could respond, in any manner, Broken Fingers snatched at his wrist and yanked his arm to the side. The marble flung out of his fingers and struck a sandstone wall. He saw a second glittering piece scitter away.

Atlas slammed his head into Broken Fingers’s, breaking the man’s nose. Again. Broken howled in pain, “YOU SLUT!!”

Completely ignoring Broken as he shouted insults, Atlas snatched up his marble from the ground. His heart twisted in place upon seeing the crack. Fewer stars were inside, as if the abuse made them hide away. He couldn’t find the missing piece. There were too many small cracks in the stone floor.

Atlas’s hand closed around the marble and he held his fist to his lips, shaking in rage.

The audience hasn’t met Broken yet. Master Rhys will believe any lie Atlas gives him about Broken’s potential as a gladiator. 

_ “He wouldn’t last. So I killed him.” _

Atlas let out a rageful, shivering hiss and wheeled around-

Running right into Milo.

Milo, with his deep voice, gave a chuckle, warmly grasping Atlas’s shoulders and stepping back, unfortunately dropping his hands much too quickly. “Sorry. I wanted to see if you’d like to eat lunch with me?”

Nearly all of his anger dissipated on the spot. The sudden drop of ferocity was starting. But Milo’s smile eased him, and he didn’t care where Broken had run off to. Atlas followed Milo to the cafeteria. Just as they’d entered, servants seeped out of the sandstone wall at the far end of the room in one long line, each carrying platters full of different foods, placing these platters onto the long stone table.

“Is there a kitchen beyond the wall?” Milo asked.

“Yes.”

Milo sighed through his nose then. “I wish I could make croissants.”

Atlas eyed Milo as he got himself a plate and piled watermelon on it, with one sandwich. “You can cook?”

Milo smiled at Atlas over his shoulder. “Mhm.”

“What is a croissant?”

“It’s a crescent moon shaped pastry. The bread is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Usually they’re filled with jam and covered in cream. I used to make them every other day. Not to brag, but I’ve mastered the croissant.”

Atlas wanted one.

He hesitated, then asked, “Can you make them?”

“I can’t exactly seep through walls, can I?”

They chose a table out of the sunlight pouring in from the dome, and Atlas began to pick the seeds out of his watermelon. “I can.”

Milo chortled. “What, you’ll sneak me into the kitchen?”

“Yes. Will you make them?”

At that, Milo grinned brightly Atlas. “Sure.”

“Tonight then.” Atlas poured the seeds onto the seat between himself and Milo. He pursed his lips and whistled a gentle tune.

A tiny brown bird immediately zoomed down from above, before any gladiator coming into the cafeteria could see, and it gracefully landed on the seat. However, the bird didn’t pay any mind to the seeds yet. For the first time, Atlas had someone sitting with him, and the bird appeared to inspect Milo, pecking at the curling ends of his long blonde hair.

Atlas grasped Milo’s hand then, placed a seed in his palm, and placed his hand on the seat between them. The bird twitched its head from side to side curiously before hopping up onto Milo’s palm, taking the seed. After its assessment, the bird flopped over, stretched out all four legs and rubbed lazily into Milo’s palm.

Atlas covered his mouth, watching Milo giggle at the tiny thing. Milo’s eyes glanced up, then did a double take at Atlas. 

“Are you smiling?”

“No,” Atlas dropped his hand, biting into watermelon and avoiding Milo’s prying gaze. The bird decided then to hop up onto Atlas’s shoulder and tuck itself into his hair. Perfectly hidden, but purring tweets entered his ear. Atlas had to bite his tongue.

Milo laughed softly and started to eat himself. That is, until someone sat down heavily at their table. It was Gregory. His usually kempt brown hair was tousled and had bags under his usually flirtatious deep green eyes.

“Thane told me you’re a doctor?” Gregory asked, his voice heavy with fatigue. Despite his condition, he still had the energy to give Atlas a smile.

Milo’s eyes scanned Gregory. “Yes?”

“Listen, I’ve got a painful rash on my dick, the servants said to sleep it off but I can’t sleep because I’m shitting like-”

“Alright,” Milo cut him off, rubbing his temple. “I’m trying to eat. I’ll meet you in the infirmary afterward. Okay?”

“Got it, doc,” Gregory saluted him, stood up slowly, and slowly made his way out of the cafeteria with his back hunched.

Milo sighed and stared at his lunch. “The blunt culture here is otherworldly.”

Atlas simply bit into his sandwich, unbothered.

  
  


After lunch was finished, Atlas made sure the tiny bird flew back up to its high perch and followed Milo to the infirmary. It was just down the hallway from the cafeteria. It was fairly sized, not as large as the sleeping room, but had ample light and beds with curtains around them. Gregory laid on one bed, completely unmoving, eyes open.

“Doc, I’m dying!” Gregory whined. Atlas recognized the whiny tone. Gregory often used it to flirt.

There were two servants standing off to the side. Their faces couldn’t be seen, but the nervousness translated well through their fidgety hands. One of the servants spoke up, “Your Highness, are you really a doctor …?”

Sometimes, servants would address the gladiators formally, though Atlas did not understand why. They are royal by blood only.

“I am,” Milo confirmed with an unshakable confidence as he tied his hair - it was long enough to be tied back by itself. “Where are all the supplies? Gloves and such?”

A servant gestured to the bare wall behind them.

Milo sighed. “Of course. May I have some sanitizer and a pair of gloves?”

The servant pressed their hand to a specific space along the wall, and a stone drawer outlined itself, and slid out. The servant gave Milo a bottle of alcohol and from another drawer, a big pair of plastic gloves.

Atlas leaned against the doorframe, watching Milo wash his hands with the alcohol and don the gloves. Unfortunately, Atlas wouldn’t be able to see much, although perhaps it was a good thing. Milo approached Gregory’s bed and closed the curtain around them.

“Can you move?” Milo asked, his voice gentle, but had a certain systematic sound.

“Yeah, but please do the honors, cuz it fuckin hurts.”

Indeed, Milo must have done the honors and removed Gregory’s pants. “I thought as much. Please turn around.”

Gregory groused, “Fine, just be gentle-OW! THE FUCK!?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you had used protection. I saw that entire basket of Intimacy Hexes,” Milo spoke irritatedly.

“I don’t know how to use those!”

“The directions are on the back!”

“BITCH YOU THINK I CAN READ!?” Gregory burst out laughing. Atlas glanced to his right, and on a counter, there was a familiar, large basket full of flat, red wrapped squares. Intimacy Hexes? Is that what those things are?

Milo exited the curtained area and dropped the gloves into a waste basket. Milo gestured to a servant who had a pencil and clipboard. “May I?”

The servant readily handed over the pencil and the clipboard with fresh paper. Atlas gazed upon Milo’s serious face as he wrote down things. His fingers were agile and quick with the pencil.

Milo gave the clipboard and pencil back. “He has the yalom STD. Is the medication here?”

The servant stared at the long string of characters on the board. “Umm, I don’t think so. But we can order it and have it arrive today.”

“Get two or three,” Milo glanced at Gregory’s curtained bed and asked quickly, “Gregory, when did the rash appear?”

“Like, yesterday. But I started getting itchy after I fucked this one guy, Tarn, the day before.”

“Anyone else after Tarn?”

“Surprisingly? Just Tarn. But he doesn’t have it? I didn’t see no rash on him.”

“Sometimes the yalom STD hides in people and sometimes it doesn’t. Has Tarn slept with anyone else?”

“Probably not.”

Milo sighed again and left the infirmary. His returned rather quickly, dragging two people behind him by their collars.

Gregory had managed to get up and push aside the curtain. He laughed at Tarn. “Tarn my dear! You’ve been cheating on me? You gave me a disease, I hope you know!”

“Get off!” Tarn slapped at Milo’s hand. Atlas recognized him and the other man, who stared at Atlas with wide, frightened eyes. It was the mute sword swallower, and Tarn was apparently a friend, or rather, lover.

Not another couple already ….

Milo immediately gave the three men rules, especially aiming his voice at Gregory. Once the medicine arrived, they had to take it until it was gone, two pills a day, which turned out to be two weeks.

“And absolutely no sex whatsoever,” said Milo.

Gregory nearly screamed, “What!?”

“If you aggravate the infection, it will dig deeper and scar. Without fail, men have experienced erectile dysfunction because they didn’t follow instructions. Two weeks or the rest of your life. You choose.”

Gregory’s eyes were watery with the threat of tears. This man truly loved sex to an utter fault.

After that, Milo showed the three how to use the Intimacy Hexes. He merely demonstrated with a piece of red, thornless cactus that he plucked from the courtyard. Milo tore open the little red Hex package and a simple band covered in Runes fell out. Once the band was placed at the base of the prop, the band fitted itself and covered the prop in a kaleidoscope-like shield.

That easy?

Although Atlas didn’t think highly of this doctor occupation, Milo seemed to know a lot, and was dedicated to it. Atlas also got to see words being written down for the first time as well. Like any gladiator bred and raised by the K'reche Tribes, Atlas did not know how to read or write. As soon as he turned five, a false sword was put into his hands. And when he hit puberty at thirteen, he was released into his first tournament. No one needed a gladiator to be literate.

After the “fun” and the approaching dusk, Atlas decided to sleep until eight-thirty in the evening. He hadn’t wanted to time travel - he’d hoped his slumber would feel long and too drawn out. Instead, he closed his eyes, only to reopen them and see Sift beside his bed.

Atlas gripped the marble from under his pillow. He hadn’t meant to take it with him, and now regretted it. He couldn’t keep it in his sleeve, because Sift brought him clothes picked out by Master Rhys.

These clothes were much different in style than the plain robes of the barracks. Sift dressed Atlas, wrapping silk around his shoulders and tying it in place. The pants were flowing and stopped at his ankles, where gold and silver bracelets dangled delicately. Sift also put bracelets around his wrist and long thin chains around his neck. His hair was combed out, long bangs pinned back, and his head adorned by a circlet crown of gold. Rhys favored him in peach and orange colors. Atlas only really liked the dark blue of the sashes his barracks wore during the tournaments.

Atlas didn’t know why Master Rhys liked to dress him up like this when he left the barracks. It didn’t matter, however.

Sift and himself traveled past the cafeteria, past the infirmary, and turned right. This hall was the same large size as the others, but the two leaved doors in front of Atlas were five times the size of every other door, and three times as thick, covered in steel bars. This was the only door that did not discriminate in Atlas’s favor. 

The large servants at the doors bowed to Atlas and pressed their hands upon the door. Runes lit up on the door, and the metal bars pulled away, disappearing in the the walls. As the heavy door creaked open, Atlas thought to look over his shoulder.

At the end of the short hall, Milo stood beside the corner, his long long hair tousled from sleep, curling around his face a little more than usual. His eyes were wide and concerned. Atlas thought Milo would be looking at the exit, but those big, gentle eyes were undeniably on Atlas.

_ “You are the only person who can give consent to allow others to touch your body.” _

Atlas gripped his marble tightly and snapped his gaze forward, exiting the barracks with long strides. His shoes tapped lightly onto marble flooring. Outside of the barracks, the rest of the colosseum was luxurious, with white marble walls, impossibly tall stone columns embedded with bolts of sapphire. The amber marble floors sparkled in an array of confusing, highly intricate patterns.

Atlas passed by walls and walls of beautiful weapons and pieces of armor. In glass cases mounted on the walls, deep blue banners, burned and torn on the edges, were hung as trophies, along with broken and bent crowns, staffs and other items. 

Master Rhys showed Atlas these items many times in his childhood, and said,  _ “These are trophies from the palace not far from here. Each item belonged to an Anatori royal. Can you find your grandfather and grandmother’s?” _

This question was asked as Atlas’s hair was stroked at the back of his neck. He pointed to the two grandest crowns in the showcase, and Master Rhys patted his head, pleased as he asked Atlas,  _ “What do you feel towards these bloody and bent items?” _

Atlas replied,  _ “Victory for K'reche.” _

Master Rhys laughed boundlessly.  _ “Little one, which crown was to be yours?” _

Atlas remembered cringing as he once again pointed to the crown of his grandfather.

_ “Close. It is your grandfather’s, and that one.” _ Master Rhys pointed to a smaller crown, a delicate circlet crown that was in perfect condition. Master Rhys spoke close to his ear.  _ “Pretty, isn’t it?” _

_ “No.” _

The crown upon Atlas’s head felt heavier. This was the crown of a defeated kingdom. The desert kingdom belonging to the Anatori royals was now the great kingdom of K'reche. Why would he think an Anatori crown was beautiful?

Sift led Atlas to a familiar pair of doors, and opened them, quickly bowing their head and stepping aside.

The room was lit up by a stone fireplace, the carpet and walls were a deep red. A grand curtained bed sat at the left end of this room, close to the fireplace. In a velvet, cushioned chair, Master Rhys sat languidly in a black silk robe. Atlas could see his features more clearly than last time, in the dim moonlight. Master Rhys’s face was square with sharp cheekbones and thin lips, nose narrow with dark curly hair reaching just below his ears. Master Rhys’s eye was round, not too big, not too small. Master Rhys was missing an eye, so he wore a golden plate over it. This golden plate was carved into the shape of an eye.

Sift’s movements faltered when Master Rhys waved for him to leave. Atlas didn’t know why until Sift closed the doors, leaving Atlas alone with his master. Atlas still had his marble. He intended to leave it with Sift.

There was no where where he could put it. These clothes he wore will be taken away, and as per usual, Atlas will be given Master Rhys’s robe.

“You truly are a vision in Anatorian fashion,” Master Rhys spoke, eyeing Atlas from head to toe. “My dear Crown Prince Amori, come here.”

Atlas knew this routine by heart. It was degrading. Which was the point. Atlas pretended to be the Crown Prince Amori, and Master Rhys reviled in degrading said prince.

Gripping his marble protectively, Atlas knelt before Master Rhys, who grasped his chin and lifted his head. Atlas donned this crown, only for Master Rhys to take joy in tearing it off and throwing it over his chair. Atlas’s head was then guided to Master Rhys’s lap.

Master Rhys caressed his hair, and Atlas fully expected to hear familiar lines, such as,  _ “Little prince, how does it feel to have your kingdom overtaken? Dear Amori, you are the last of your bloodline.” _

Things like that.

Instead, his master asked, “Why have you come to me this time? Why do you need access to those rotting bodies below our feet?”

Fingers were traced over Atlas’s eyelashes and down his nose to his lips. “The gladiator Thane is an audience favorite. I need some of his lover’s hair to motivate him.”

Master Rhys laughed. “Amori, you would kneel like this for a lock of hair? It was indeed a bright red that could be seen from miles away. Sift has told me you are behaving strangely. If you had simply killed Thane and kissed me sweetly, I would forget about him.”

“My first priority is to bring glory to the colosseum and please the audience.”

“And your second priority?” Master Rhys murmured into his ear and bit his earlobe lightly.

Atlas gritted his teeth.

_ “You are the only person who can give consent to allow others to touch your body.” _

He knew the words Master Rhys wanted to hear, but they couldn’t even escape his throat.

Master Rhys gave a mirthless chuckle, his hand coming to tightly grip Atlas’s hair. Abruptly, Atlas’s head was yanked back, his hand was seized and Master Rhys clawed his fingers through Atlas’s fist, prying away the marble.

“Give it back.” The words flowed from Atlas’s mouth. He didn’t mean to say those anxious words.

Master Rhys smiled coldly, leaning back in his chair and examining the marble. “Sift informed me you stare at this thing constantly. There is nothing remarkable about mere glass. So, there must be something remarkable about that Milo to endear such an object. I’ve never seen you want something more than this marble. Or this Milo.”

Atlas kept his eyes to the floor, but then his jaw was roughly pinched in Master Rhys’s hand. His master forced his head up, and Atlas looked into the single, cold grey eye.

“Look carefully, Amori,” Master Rhys hissed.

The marble was presented to Atlas, then it disappeared into Master Rhys’s fist. His fist shook just slightly, and a tiny series of cracking sounds arose. In Atlas’s ears, those small sounds struck him sharply, each crack and crunch twisting his heart. Master Rhys opened his palm, and showed Atlas the tens of pieces that once made up his marble. His master let the pieces fall to the floor.

“From now on,” Master Rhys murmured softly, stroking Atlas’s head, “You are not to have any contact with this Milo unless it is in the arena. The servants will watch you and report back. If I find that you have even spoken one word to that man, I will rip out your tongue. If he touches you, he will lose his hand. He will be given no second chances. Understand?”

Atlas nodded slowly, but that wasn’t enough. Master Rhys struck him across his face and pulled his hair, shouting, “UNDERSTAND!?”

“Yes.”

Master Rhys’s eyes widened upon the quiver in Atlas’s voice. At that moment, Atlas wasn’t able to call upon his steady indifference. His entire body shook with rage and loss. His mind was filled with the falling shards of his marble, and Milo’s gentle, colorful gaze.

That night, at one in the morning, Master Rhys slept soundly. Sift was completely silent as he untied Atlas. The servant tried to help him walk, but he pushed Sift away. Sift had gathered the shards of his marble in a white napkin, and Atlas clutched it tightly.

He walked slowly to the incineration room, draped in Master Rhys’s silk robe. His entire body ached, so much so that the rotting bodies in the incineration room bothered him none. It was easy to find the bright red hair of Thane’s lover, Lory.

Atlas took the entirety of Lory’s long braid and cut it free. He gently settled Lory’s body on the floor, separate from the rest, and outside of the incineration room, he watched them all turn to ashes. Afterwards, once the room was cooled, he gathered Lory’s ashes into a small velvet pouch.

The barracks felt colder than the rest of the colosseum. The coolness eased some of his pain.

Atlas ventured quietly into the sleeping room. Thane had returned to his bed, and in the crook of Thane’s arm, he settled the two items down gently. Briefly, Atlas left the room and grabbed Sift by the collar of their black robe. The grip had no strength to it, and Atlas refused to look at them.

“You owe me,” Atlas’s voice quivered in quiet rage. “Do not speak of what happens this night, and I will not tell Master Rhys unspeakable lies. Give your vow.”

“I swear,” Sift spoke quietly, their voice heavy with guilt.

Atlas let go of Sift and entered the sleeping room once more. He tugged on Milo’s sleeve. Milo shifted and gave a jolt.

“Atlas?” Milo whispered.

He tugged again, and Milo finally slipped out of bed and followed Atlas out into the courtyard. The blue light of moon and stars made the night appear colder.

Milo’s hand came to gently grasp Atlas’s wrist. His thumb brushed lightly over raw and torn skin. “He did this …?”

Atlas didn’t respond. He sat down slowly, carefully, and pulled Milo with him. In front of Milo, Atlas unfolded a napkin. The moonlight made the broken pieces of the marble glitter. Wordlessly, Atlas unclipped a bracelet from Milo’s wrist.

Milo stared silently at Atlas, unmoving. Atlas didn’t dare look up, and ran his fingers along the bracelet in his hands. After a long moment of stillness, Milo let go of a small, pent up breath and folded the napkin once more, holding it between his hands.

A calming, gentle green light lit up the napkin for but a moment before the light faded away. Milo grasped Atlas’s hand, and shook the napkin. A marble, a little smaller now, rolled onto his skin, warmed by Milo’s energy. It still bore a crack, but inside, bright little stars were ignited.

Atlas closed his hand around the marble tightly, still keeping his head lowered, his gaze to the ground. Milo himself put the bracelet back around his wrist, and spoke in that deep, gentle voice of his.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?”

His eyes only shifted a bit, to watch Milo’s hands spread out the napkin on the ground, and fold it in an array of ways until it took on a triangular shape. Milo stood and walked a few steps away from Atlas, the strange shape in his hands. Milo had his back turned, but he seemed to hold the napkin to his face, and whispered to it.

Then, Milo returned, and sat beside Atlas, shoulder to shoulder. He held his hand out in front of Atlas, and the napkin inflated gradually, glowing a soft green light. The napkin had inflated into the shape of a bird. It had no legs, it sat, round and plump with a faceless head. But it moved much like a bird, and had triangular wings.

Atlas poked it, and the bird’s wings suddenly fluttered until it was lifted from Milo’s hand. It’s pure white form fluttered in a circle, then rose up out of the courtyard. It poked its beak through the shielding above, then managed to awkwardly worm its fat body past the shield.

It seemed to disappear into the stars.

An ache returned to his body, and Atlas shifted until his head laid on Milo’s thigh. He spoke, his voice weak and hoarse, “Can I … stay like this for a bit?”

Milo was silent, his body tensed, but eventually he relaxed and his large hand rested on Atlas’s arm, soothingly moving his hand up and down. “Stay as long as you need.”

Those words were filled with such a sharp warmth, they pierced Atlas’s last string of strength. Yet, he wasn’t the first to cry. He felt a droplet hit his cheek, and his first thought was,  _ rain? _ But he shifted his head, and saw Milo’s bright eyes warp from water. He appeared angry, but the pitiful tears kept him from looking fierce.

“Why are you crying for me?” Atlas croaked, trying to blink away his own tears, but they escaped, leaving hot streams down the side of his face.

“Because,” Milo swallowed hard, his voice thick with emotion, “Because you don’t deserve this. No one deserves this pain.”

Atlas reached up and touched Milo’s face, his fingers tracing downward to Milo’s trembling lips. His body ached, but the warmth in his chest was fluttering. “Can I … ?”

Milo blinked away more tears, taking Atlas’s hand gently and nodding. “Yes.”

In spite of hot tears and a damaged body, the corners of his lips lifted. Perhaps it was because Milo pitied him, but he couldn’t find the will in him to care. Milo bent down and Atlas met him halfway, kissing those soft, full pink lips.

If he could, Atlas would ingrain this warmth and softness into his bones.


	4. Cut Off

Atlas only vaguely remembered being tucked into bed, after some sort of salve was smoothed over the small wounds around his neck, wrist and ankles. He was still clutching his marble when he awoke to the heat of the afternoon.

The rest of today and tomorrow would be the last days with nothing but leisure. Then, training starts.

He only had the strength to put up a blanket in front of his niche, blocking out both the afternoon sun, and any prying eyes. Atlas removed his collar and, lying on his side, traced the wall with his finger. His energy seeped into the wall and a two inch cylinder shape was pushed out. Atlas made the hole in the wall a little deeper and gently nestled his marble inside. He slipped the cylinder back in place. The cut was so clean, the cylinder couldn’t be seen. Atlas stared at the wall until he fell back into slumber.

A pair of soft lips pressed against his ear and murmured,  _ “Atlas.” _

He jolted awake, rubbing his ear with a growl spreading out from his stomach. Atlas took a moment to steady his breathing, then gingerly stood from his bed. Sift was outside of the sleeping room, and Atlas dropped Master Rhys’s robe at their feet.

On his way to the showers, Jakar was just coming from down the hall, and completely stopped in his tracks upon seeing Atlas’s body.

“Good gods, Attie. What the fuck happened?” Jakar asked, his eyes wide.

Atlas ignored him and entered the showers. No one else was in there, nearly everyone was eating lunch. He stood under the cold water for some time, his mind going blank. Whether it was ten or fifteen minutes of zoning out, he didn’t know, but he eventually washed up properly. Every part of him hurt, and he couldn’t bear to wash twice, despite wanting to.

Given new robes by Sift, Atlas dressed on his way to the cafeteria. He hadn’t realized his mood could still be shoved down anymore than it already was, but entering the cafeteria, he was proved wrong. Milo sat at the table closest to the entrance, surrounded by gladiators complaining about any ailments the servants couldn’t help fix. Milo had finished lunch and was attentively answering questions. But, as if he could sense Atlas, his attention was diverted.

Atlas looked away before those big, bright eyes could pierce him. He grabbed a premade sandwich and left with long, quick strides. As expected, more servants were watching Atlas, and Sift followed a little closer than before.

“Atlas!”

Don’t!

He stopped in the courtyard, and turned just slightly, glaring at Milo over his shoulder.

Milo was on the steps, and his feet slowed upon being met with Atlas’s glare. “I… wanted to ask how you were feeling? Or if anywhere else is in particular pain? If you need to examine you-”

Atlas turned his back and traveled to the end of the courtyard, sitting. He hadn't meant to come back here. Remembering the kisses they shared last night was simultaneously bliss and torture.

“Atlas, did I do something wrong?”

No. Not a single thing.

He closed his eyes.  _ Don't do it, Milo _ .

Milo came closer, “I won't know what I've done wrong if you don't tell me.” Milo paused, and Atlas could hear a gentle smile in his teasing voice. “Is it that you didn't get to wake up with me?”

Atlas gritted his teeth. Milo would be killed if he was caught in Atlas's bed.

“Atlas… what did Rhys say-”

The hairs on the back Atlas's neck rose and he spun around, swiping his leg beneath Milo's feet. Milo's hand was too close, but now he fell to the ground. Safe.

He leapt to his feet, walking around Milo to escape the courtyard. Gladiators were staring from the windows. Atlas called, “Sift.”

His intention was understood, Sift stepped out and bowed his head towards a dumbfounded Milo. “You are not permitted to have any contact with Atlas outside of the arena.”

“I don’t understand, what happened?” Milo demanded, once more trying to approach, completely ignoring Sift. He was but a yard away, “Atlas, what’s going-”

Atlas’s fist drove into Milo’s stomach. His strangled gasp filled Atlas’s ears. His heart was pounding, chest flaring with heated fear. This won’t be enough. He cannot have Milo approaching him anymore. The servants are all too happy to please Master Rhys, they will be eager to report even the tiniest touch from Milo.

_ I’m sorry _ .

While Milo was hunched over, Atlas kicked him to the ground. He tore off his collar and knelt, pressing his hand to Milo’s chest. Those beautiful, gentle eyes were wide in confusion and hurt. Something inside of Atlas rotted on the spot as he forced himself to meet those gentle eyes with an unwavering glare.

Blood orange light surged into Milo’s body, crackling and bending sharply, stabbing at and stirring up Milo’s energy. The energy swelled and tried to escape, only to be absorbed by all the gold collars on Milo’s body. The collars don’t simply burn the wearers skin - they rebound the energy and attack the source.

Milo’s cry of pain filled the barracks.

 

○°☆°○

 

Under the stars that night, Milo felt all sorts of things as he saw a gorgeous smile reach Atlas’s lips and warmed his gaze. He was completely enamored, for one. But his pain for Atlas doubled as well. Milo couldn’t stomach seeing the bruises and torn skin around Atlas’s neck and ankles.

Five years into his career, he has come across victims of sexual abuse too often. He has seen the irreparable damage done to these victims and his heart has hardened none. In fact, seeing such horrors has weakened it. How could he not cry for Atlas?

Last night, his wariness of Atlas vanished. Milo kissed him for as long as he wanted, which appeared to be until Atlas succumbed to sleep. To think his heart was fluttering so maddeningly, only to have the warm butterflies of affection stomped on mercilessly.

Atlas subjected Milo to the worst pain he had ever experienced, and his cruel, cold black gaze struck fear in him. Was he delusional? Could those eyes ever hold an ounce of affection and humanity?

He knew, deep down, that Rhys was behind Atlas’s behavior. Still, Milo was so impossibly foolish. He shouldn’t have ever allowed himself to be carried why by his feelings for this prince.

Only one thing consoled Milo. He was able to send out a message to the Kingdom of Carvess, his home. He only hoped the bird would not be swept away by sandstorms or struck down by lightning. If the bird can make it past the contamination of the Anathema Aura, then the Ether inside won’t be inhibited, and its speed will increase.

Milo estimated three months, if all goes well and the Four great Minds can come together. Luckily, Milo came at a fortunate time - the tournaments start in five months. That is ample time.

But, will Atlas become an ally or an enemy when or if the time comes to escape?

Milo woke up in a cold sweat. His skin down to his bones trembled, eyes swollen and wet. The moment he blinked, Atlas’s cold expression flashed before him, and he didn’t dare close his eyes again. How was it possible for a man to enamor Milo, then turn around and make him tremble in fear?

_ “Milo!”  _ he recalled his mother’s laughing voice,  _ “You worry so much, dear. When you least expect it, you will meet someone. I dare say, they may appear in the worst place possible. What do you mean you will save courting for your thirties? You’re asking for the gods to jinx you!” _

Fresh tears dribbled bitterly down his face.  _ Mum, Da, I sincerely pray you are both having a good laugh at my twist of fate. I miss you so much. _

“Crying still? That Atlas is pretty, but not  _ that _ pretty! He’s a real bitch. No wonder he ain’t got friends,” a nasally voice spoke up,

Milo eyed the man lying in the bed next to him. His name was Ells. He had a distinct oval face and dark, somewhat long curly hair. Atlas has broken Ells’ fingers and his nose (twice). When Milo witnessed Atlas breaking Ells’ fingers, he decided firmly, along with the advice of Thane, to stay far away, not that he didn’t have that mindset when Atlas first told Milo he owned him. The violence and ease Atlas had while breaking bones, stark naked no less, affirmed Milo’s goal to stay away.

But then Thane told him who Atlas was.

Although, Milo was especially drawn to Atlas when he witnessed the prince silently enjoying a tiny bird’s company. It gave him some hope of reaching Atlas’s humanity.

“Hey, you’re pretty strong. Want to get back at that Rhys slut after he trains us?”

Milo glared at Ells, his eyes lighting up with an ethereal glow, “Do you want your fingers to remain intact?”

“Oof, you sure are scary with your freckles and sun kissed cheeks,” Ells mocked. “Atlas must be a helluva fuck.”

“You’re disgusting,” Milo hissed beneath his breath, slowly rising from his bed. His patience was quickly degrading in this place. Milo has never been a violent person, but Ells and Rhys gave him thoughts that stated otherwise.

 Every step of the way to the sleeping room, Milo had to stay close to the walls. Gravity pressed on him so intensely, his skin felt as though it were being pulled down. His Core must be damaged. Those with a good amount of Ether are often described as “walking on clouds,” but once their Core’s ability to produce Ether is inhibited, they noticeably feel heavier.

Milo’s stomach lurched when he remembered the searing pain Atlas inflicted. Like needles stabbing him from the inside out. Why is this prince capable of both great tenderness and great cruelty?

The light in the sky had turned a warm orange, and as the hallways lost natural light, sigils glowed upon the sandstone walls. The stars were so eager to shine, they pushed through the light of the sunset.

Milo received cautious stares, sympathetic ones as well, from the men and women of the barracks. A large handful of the gladiators who have lived in the barracks much longer than the rest seemed to find Milo amusing. Of course, Milo was instantly privy to all sorts of gossip - the gladiators probably took him to be some poor sap who fell in love with the most unlovable and unfeeling gladiator in the colosseum. Maybe he is a poor sap.

Outside of the sleeping room, Milo spotted the servant named Sift. They were on the small side, and while Atlas is short, this one was much shorter, and followed Atlas quite a bit.

Sift lifted their fabric covered head, their mask turning towards Milo, regarding him silently.

“Why can’t I have contact with Atlas?” Milo asked, straight to the point.

“Master Rhys’s command is thus:” Sift began, “‘Outside of the arena, Atlas is not to speak to you, else he will lose his tongue. And you are not to touch him, else you will lose your hand. Your second offense ends in death.”

Atlas … stopped Milo every time he tried to touch him. Why couldn't he have had Sift inform Milo!? Why did Atlas subject him to such pain? Milo looked into the sleeping room, his eyes drawn to Atlas's niche in the wall. A blanket was put up.

What could Atlas be possibly feeling right now? Could he be feeling regret? Did he care about Milo's safety? Or was last night just a moment of weakness, and eventually brought Atlas back further into Rhys's clutches?

Suddenly, Sift gave him an upsetting clarity.

“Atlas cares most about bringing glory to the colosseum,” said Sift. “You are a powerful asset, and it would be a great loss of potential if you perished. For your sake, please let go of lingering affections.”

How!? None of this bullshit makes sense!

Milo just couldn't stand anymore. He thought he could grab his spare robes and go straight to the end of the room to the farthest empty bed. But he couldn't. The last piece of his mother was under his bed, encased in sandstone.

Not a single word left Milo. He was done talking with Sift, and collapsed onto his bed, his feet dangling off the end. What could he say with a jumbled mind and heart, anyway? He couldn't ask Atlas to explain himself, at least not here.

Arena it is then, Rhys.

 

○°☆°○

 

Milo woke up a few times that night, because Jakar was holding a party that lasted until dawn. It sounded as though the barracks were desperate to have their fill of alcohol. In fact, they were indeed desperate, because the next day, while everyone was passed out cold, Milo found that the kegs of alcohol in the cafeteria were gone.

Not a drop left to be seen.

This was the last day before training, Milo believed. It would make sense to rid the barracks of alcohol, to keep the gladiators in shape. If the colosseum really wanted to keep people healthy, why isn't a proper doctor on duty? The servants here have half the knowledge a real nurse does.

For most of the day, the barracks was quiet and sleepy. Milo spent time alone in the cafeteria and courtyard, thinking, and casually inspecting the shielding above the courtyard.

To his delight, he managed to catch a glimpse of head-sized sigils along the upper wall of the courtyard. They would only glint slightly from time to time, as if breathing. Upon seeing the sigil, Milo knew the shield was not made of Anathemian Aura, but mostly Ether. However, it was beginning to look like … a mix of the two? The normal sigil for this Ether shield was a relatively simple design of Runes, but mysterious, sharp lines were added into the sigil. And no doubt the incantations were slightly revised. 

This shield was now made to harm people in some way if they come into contact with it.

Milo felt uneasy and thought back to Atlas's missing arm. That time when Atlas was stark naked and dragging Ells out of the showers to fight him, Milo was able to see a great deal of the residual limb. At the cut-off, Atlas's skin had a burn scar, a little past a second degree burn. His arm wasn't cut off by a blade, but it was too even of a burn scar to have been burnt away by flames.

The shield was definitely not to be touched. But if the sigils could be disrupted… 

Milo wondered if the arena had the same shielding and set up of sigils.

Around three in the afternoon, gladiators started waking up and walking about. However, there was no sign of Atlas. Milo saw Sift attempt to bring Atlas food, but the servant was ignored.

At dinner time, Sift tried again, and Milo leaned against the wall, a little ways away from the sleeping room entrance. There was silence, and Sift soon walked out, head lowered dejectedly with a plate in their hands.

Milo bit his thumbnail, then called loudly, “Atlas. How are you going to train any of us tomorrow if you're dehydrated and hungry?”

Sift stood at the doorway, looking at Milo for a good moment before their masked face turned towards the room. Perhaps Atlas had silently waved for Sift, for when Sift came out of the room once more, the plate was gone.

Milo was still jumbled up on the inside, but some part of him felt relief. Atlas didn't completely disregard his existence, and still had a willing ear. There’s hope yet for this prince.

The only company Milo had during dinner was Thane’s, which wasn’t much since Thane was often hyper fixated on weaving together bright red hair, ignoring his dinner. No one in the barracks had such hair, so Milo asked, “Where… did you get that?”

It took Thane a good few moments before answering, “Atlas got it from Lory for me. And his ashes.” Thane finally paused his fingers, brows furrowing, eyes becoming red as they often did. “Jakar told me Atlas looked as though he were used as a punching bag. I hated him ever since I was captured. In my mind, he was a proxy for Rhys. But, there can’t be anyone in this barracks that hates Rhys more than Atlas. I think I owe him my life for going so far to give me something of Lory’s.”

Atlas went to Rhys to fulfill a suicidal man’s wish. It seemed so improbable, he wouldn't be surprised if Atlas didn't understand his actions either.

And now Thane may be swearing his life to him.

“Don't dwell too much on him,” said Thane. “He sleeps with a person once and forgets about them. In your case, he just lost interest quicker.”

Is that meant to be consoling!?

From speaking with his fellow captives in this barracks, Milo has found that the gladiators who have been here for more than four years have become not only accustomed to the blunt and open culture, but also to avoiding sympathy for others. Thane didn’t know how to console Milo, but the intent was there. The culture is also very sexual; when Milo offered Thane a hug, Thane took it to be a sexual invite. In this gladiator culture, sex was prevalent, but platonic affection was scarce.

Milo wasn’t blind. All of this is centered around death. The more friends one makes, the more they love, the more they have to lose in the arena. The bleak, but necessary mindset of the gladiators was stifling. Milo had to admire Jakar - he chatted heartily with Milo, actively seeking him out and getting to know him. Jakar collects friends the way a dragon collects jewels. In fact, the only person Milo hasn’t seen Jakar speak with would be Ells and Atlas.

In terms of the culture between men and women, there is little to no difference. Experienced gladiators didn’t blink twice and didn’t shy away from each other’s bodies. Insecurities seemed to vanish, at least for Milo. He has noticed, however, that the ratio of men to women contrasted greatly in the men’s favor.

Milo discovered that women, trans men or others with wombs who refused to “breed” were thrown into the colosseum. Those who chose to “breed” apparently lived lives full of leisure, their every need met in order to give birth to healthy and powerful fighters. Milo didn’t doubt it. A child born from a healthy, happy person often have strong, pure Cores. The brighter the color of their Ether, the better.

Atlas however … the color of his Ether is a disturbing blood orange. If it is possible for the happiest person to give birth to a pure Core, then is it possible a person full of hatred and resentment can give birth to a corrupted Core? From stories Milo heard about Atlas’s mother, Crown Princess Akeere, she seemed to be a fierce and nearly unforgiving person. There was no way she lived happily in leisure, imprisoned by the K'reche king, while the Anatori family was slaughtered.

Milo didn’t sleep well. He was anxious and unsure about what tomorrow will bring, anxious to know what is going through Atlas’s head. His soul was also intent on tearing itself apart. Each time he managed to doze, Milo saw his mother’s body falling to the ground lifelessly beside his father.

If he could ever get his hands around the neck of the man who killed his parents, Milo wouldn’t hesitate to drive every breath out of his body.

 

○°☆°○

 

“Get up.”

Milo jolted at a high pitched sound radiating from a sigil carved into the wall beside the doorway. He noticed it, of course, but never knew what it did. The sound stabbed into his Core, waking him up instantaneously - there was no room to feel groggy in the slightest.

The light coming into the sleeping room was a cold grey pink. Six in the morning?

Atlas stood at the doorway. His composure seemed different, more commanding. He no longer wore light blue robes, but dark brown kneehigh boots, leggings, and tied tightly around his waist was a dark blue, silk sash. This same fabric was draped over his residual arm in an elegant, large sleeve attached to a silver pauldron in the arrogant shape of the K'reche Tribes’ sun banner. This pauldron and sleeve were kept in place by a leather strap crossing Atlas’s bare chest. On his left arm, he wore a compression sleeve and silver vambrace.

Not a single bruise could be seen on his body. Only many, many healed scars from arrows and swords.

“Two minutes to dress. Ten minutes to eat,” Atlas informed and walked out of the room.

Milo and several others started dressing into their robes, but two lines of servants entered swiftly, bearing new clothes. Dark brown leggings, boots, dark blue sashes and dark blue tank tops. Milo was perturbed when he found the clothes, down to the boots, fit him perfectly. The laces tied themselves like tiny thin snakes.

The clothes wasn’t the only thing to change - in the cafeteria, everyone was served a premade plate of dull, but nutritional and protein rich foods. No room to be picky.

A gargantuan servant in black arrived timely, and in a booming deep voice, they commanded, “Follow.”

The experienced gladiators stood promptly and obediently, and Milo’s “generation of gladiators” followed their lead. The servant they followed was Milo’s height, about six-seven, but were twice as wide and heavy. 

This servant lead them to the showers, and Milo was utterly confused until the stone wall at the end of the pristine room shifted inwards, and slid apart, revealing a large wooden door. The servant pushed it open, and stood at the doorway.

“Form two lines of thirty-five and go,” the servant ordered.

Seasoned gladiators took the lead and left the shower room into a bare, narrow, circular chamber. Rising above all their heads was a doorless entryway filled with blue light shifting like the surface of a kaleidoscope. Two gargantuan servants stood guard at the entrance. In pairs, gladiators approached, the servants removed their collars and simultaneously shoved them through the blue shield.

It was Milo’s turn, and the servant spoke to him simply, “Dominant hand.”

He raised his dominant right hand, and the servant only removed the two bracelets there. Then, his neck was grabbed. The servant’s Ether encased Milo’s body and only then was he shoved past the shield. Only faintly, did he feel the collar around his neck burn and slightly snag on the shield.

Milo stumbled into a circular room, towering higher than any other ceiling. Every wall was covered in weapons of all kinds. One wall was especially crowded with weapons, each one gleaming and well kept. None of the weapons could be touched, for a layer of translucent shield protected them.

Yet another large doorway stood before them, wide open to the outside, and the pink grey light had shifted into a warmer color. Milo tentatively walked out, only to freeze in place.

The colosseum’s sheer size stole his breath away. The seats could hold more than two hundred thousand people. Golden banners adorned the inner walls to the arena, and special viewing platforms carved out of stone circled above the common seats. In one of these grand viewing platforms, Milo could see two figures guarding whomever had taken a seat inside.

Could it be Rhys?

Suddenly, Milo’s love handle was pinched. He yelped and snapped his gaze to Thane, who was holding a sword. Upon his wrist was a woven “vambrace” of bright red hair. Thane only smiled slightly.

“Good luck. Atlas won’t leave a single soft spot on you once he’s through.”

Milo heard a clatter, and turned around. Atlas appeared. A sword was strapped to his side and he had just dropped a tall wicker basket. Inside were wooden swords.

Atlas’s face was like stone, his dark eyes cold. “Newbies, run twenty laps around the perimeter. Then twenty push ups and twenty squats. If you cannot keep up with me, you will be punished.”

Meanwhile, the seasoned gladiators were entering the arena languidly with their weapons and watching eagerly, some even grinning evilly.

Milo understood why the moment Atlas started running. Not a single person could say he was jogging, but it wasn’t a full on sprint. Still, he was fast, and Milo found a foreboding feeling in his stomach. He’s seen Atlas train in the early mornings, there was no way all of them could keep up with the colosseum’s undefeated champion.

They were meant to fail.

Simply the fifth lap, and Milo was already trying to drag air into his lungs. He was able to stay with a small group, about ten people who kept a careful, but not too careful distance from Atlas. Meanwhile, the rest were falling behind. Milo was by no means the fittest, but he thought more highly of himself than  _ this _ . He spent his entire life on a farm, lifting and hauling, chasing after skittish sheep and cows. Then again, those were short bursts of speed.

So, Milo had no real endurance. However, at the tenth lap, Milo’s group fell behind him and he was the closest to Atlas, who had never adjusted speed and never showed any sign of exhaustion. Milo couldn’t help but watch Atlas’s strong back and count the pink scars adorning his dark skin. Atlas’s hair was tied back in a loose tail, and Milo spotted a small, round burn scar between his shoulder blades.

Atlas was branded with the K'reche Tribes’ emblem.

Milo's stomach became sour, alongside his pathetic lungs and burning legs. Sweat dripped from his chin, not only from the torture, but from the rising desert sun. It hadn't even risen above the height of the colosseum. Since arriving here, they've all been able to avoid the sun and heat by staying in the cool hallways or under the eaves of the courtyard.

But now, they must all burn to a crisp. Milo especially felt panicked. Does the barracks have sunscreen!? 

Milo, despite his best efforts, was only able to keep up for three more laps. In the seven laps left, he and his fellow captives fell behind miserably. There was a sense of utter embarrassment when Atlas finished twenty laps and watched them finish. They had fallen behind by a lap and a half, and were heaving loudly, hunching over in pain. But Atlas looked refreshed, his breathing was controlled and the sweat dampening the hair framing his face made him appear more elegant.

Milo couldn't speak for anyone else, but he wanted to throw up. Well, one woman had a green complexion, so they shared some solidarity.

“Taking a break? I told you twenty push ups, twenty squats!” Atlas commanded. “All of you drop!”

“I can't do push ups!” a lanky man called. He was bold! He had both of his arms, and Atlas could do many pushups with just the one.

Atlas glowered at the man. “Weakness is no excuse. Down!”

Abruptly, blood orange light cuffed around their ankles and wrists, yanking them to the ground, positioning them into push up stances. 

“Rise on each count. I will remember who falls behind and who doesn't.”

Milo felt a swell of overconfidence. He's hauled hay, pulled at stubborn donkeys, chopped wood, and a galore of odd jobs for his neighbors. He should be able to follow! However, once again, Atlas began counting at an unreasonable speed. Milo was dead set on keeping up and just barely did. His overconfidence really turned into panic that quick huh… towards the end, Milo's mind completely blanked when a wave of heat traveled up his back and he hadn't a clue if he missed a count or not.

Either way, his arms felt like noodles afterwards. The desert sun was really waking up now and none of them knew how long they were going to be trained. All day?

Milo felt gross, more gross than when he spent an hour to muck out the stable! But he carried on quickly. When Atlas yelled squats, his group positioned themselves accordingly, when Atlas counted, he tried his best. But again, many of them were meant to fail.

Atlas's eyes were especially harsh and irritated.

“Truly pathetic. All of you, line up. Take a squat for thirty minutes.”

Thirty!? Was that humanly possible??

Perhaps it wasn't supposed to be humanly possible. All forty of them lined up neatly, and as soon as they all went back to squatting, sharp twisting lines of blood orange Ether crackled out of the ground and into their feet, up their legs and into their spines. None of them could move, but the Ether wasn't holding them up, no, their muscles still strained to stay in a perfect ninety degree squat.

This was the punishment!

Milo's heart sped up. This can't be good, yes the goal is to build strength, but to tear muscle like this … Just a few minutes in, and he felt the burn as his muscles strained.

The sun started to peak above the rim of the colosseum, and remarkably, the lanky man who spoke up before started to sniffle. Milo glanced uneasily the man, and then at Atlas as he circled them all, like a menacing dragon. His dark black gaze swept here and there, analyzing them. He completely ignored the pitiful, tearful, frustrated face of the lanky man.

Throughout this entire ordeal, Milo was the most ignored, as if he had no presence whatsoever. Will he be able to speak at all with Atlas before they have to leave the arena? Will Milo even have the strength to talk after this??

 

○°☆°○

 

Jakar smiled sympathetically at the newbies and shook his head. The last batch of newbies were better than this, but then again, these forty newbies weren't at all bred in K'reche territory - they were taken from their homes in the remaining kingdoms that managed to stand against the K'reche Tribes and their “dark Ether.”

From the looks of things, these people were from the royal families that managed to escape and hide from the tribes. And if so many are being found, then that must mean the resisting kingdoms are slowly losing more ground.

How long until all the continent of Atora is taken over? How long until the rest of the world is conquered?

Jakar’s mind tried to wander to his own kingdom, but he wouldn't let it. Instead, his eyes swept over his fellow sparring gladiators, lingered on Atlas's lovely form and landed on someone familiar, yet not too familiar.

Atlas's servant, Sift. They were closer to Atlas than usual, stationed at the entrance to the barracks. Like any other servant, Sift looked like a black chess piece, with a shiny black mask, fabric wrapped around their head and neck, and draped in long black robes. Jakar didn't know how any servant could survive in such a uniform. K'reche fashion was meant for the bitter cold of the lands they originated from, in the south. Not meant for the desert.

This servant was different from the others. Sift was unusually small and their hands were covered in scars, possibly from a barbed whip? From the few times Jakar passed by Sift, he was able to see that Sift's eyes were dark and shiny. The servants need to see, so of course the masks have holes in them for the eyes, but the holes were kind of small and black screens were in place.

It is no easy task to see a servants eyes, they often keep to themselves until you ask them for something. But, if someone isn't afraid of coming off creepy, then they can stare long enough to see a flash of blue or green, maybe even brown eyes. Jakar was plenty shameless and plenty curious.

On an utter whim, Jakar stabbed his sword into the ground and strolled over to Sift. The little servant noticed him immediately and bowed their head politely in greeting.

They're so tiny. Shorter than Atlas by about three inches, and Atlas is usually the shortest in the barracks, although that may only be because big gladiators are so sought after that the average height is at least 5'9”. The top of Sift's head reached a bit below Jakar's collarbone.

Jakar grinned, “Morning, Sift.”

Sift tilted their head just slightly, leaving Jakar’s greeting up in the air for a bit before Sift replied in their quiet, soft voice, “Morning, Jakar.”

“You know my name!”

“Of course.”

Jakar hummed, smiling, “This is the first time a servant hasn't shied away from a conversation. I've been dying to know - do you keep cool at all in those robes, or do you just suffer and pray you don't collapse?”

Humor leaked into Sift's voice as he lifted his arm where his giant bell sleeve fell elegantly, “Feel for yourself.”

Jakar so desperately wanted to clasp onto Sift's hand and pretend he was dumb. Sift had very nice looking hands, but he resisted the urge, and grasped a bit of Sift's sleeve.

“It isn't hot at all!” Jakar remarked. The robe was, in fact, cool. “This is a very nice enchantment, I didn't expect the colosseum to care for its servants.”

“I am actually an exception.”

“Hmmm, that makes more sense,” Jakar mused and his eyes wandered to Atlas. He paused, then spoke, “His Ether is really self preserving. He looked so beat up before.”

Sift remained silent, and as Sift watched Atlas, Jakar watched Sift, specifically peering past the black screen in their mask. Just faintly, he could make out a shine, and maybe some eyelashes.

“How do you identify, Sift?” Jakar asked curiously.

“Him.”

“Ah, okay. Say, are you going to get in trouble for talking with me?”

“I cannot say.”

Jakar pursed his lips and nodded. He didn't want to get Sift in trouble. “Alright. Let's talk later then, when you don't have to watch Atlas as much!”

He patted Sift's back and let the servant be. Jakar was already looking forward to later. Normally when he's tried to befriend servants, they walk away. Their motto must be “If you are not here to be served, then you are not worth my time.” However, Sift is different, he doesn't serve anyone but Atlas.

Hopefully Attie won't mind Jakar befriending Sift. And maybe flirting a little, since he really happens to like Sift's hands and voice.

Jakar retrieved his sword and looked back at Sift, only to find that Sift had approached Atlas. Uh oh! Was Jakar actually a bother? When he had the thought, Jakar saw Atlas frown and turn his head up towards the seats, specifically one of the viewing platforms where some guards stood. Jakar couldn't see who was in the shadows, under the golden eaves, he just assumed it could be Master Rhys.

Either way, Atlas left the arena.

 

○°☆°○

 

There were twenty minutes left of the punishment, Atlas left Sift behind to continue to keep time, and he exited the arena, putting away his sword.

A large servant put on his collar and two servants hastily guided him not through to the showers, but through a hidden passage in the plain room just before the showers. This passage was a narrow staircase climbing upwards in a spiral - He assumed this spiral was wrapped around the tower in which all the weapons were kept. They stopped at a door, and left the tower. Atlas found himself up on the inner colosseum wall.

He peered into the arena, his gaze fixing on Milo. The sunlight made Milo's blond hair appear brighter than usual. Even from this height, Atlas could see Milo's strained expression.

Atlas tore his gaze away and pinned it to the back of the servant in front of him. The second servant was close behind. Offhandedly, Atlas wondered why Jakar was speaking with Sift earlier. He didn't really care, though didn't expect … actually, Jakar has been bothering servants for years, so Atlas should have expected Sift to become a target of curiosity eventually.

Atlas was guided to a viewing platform. The servants stepped aside and he climbed the steps. The sun was glaring into his eyes and he couldn't clearly see the figures in the shade until he was under the eaves as well.

He knelt as soon as his feet reached the platform, bowing his head, “Your Majesty.”

“Good morning, Atlas,” a pleasant voice greeted from a stone throne piled with cooling silks and cushions. “I am happy to finally meet my greatest champion. Please stand.”

Atlas stood, and in the the shade now, his eyes slowly adjusting, he first spotted Master Rhys sitting in the back of the platform, and then rested his gaze upon the king of K'reche. King Se'thros was a tan skinned man in his early thirties, with the same sharp cheekbones as Master Rhys, but bearing bright, pale green eyes with a long oval face and a head of light brown, curly hair reaching past his shoulders. His thick brows were arches pointing downward, giving him a mischievous look, coupled by his full, smirking lips.

Atlas was most concentrated on his eyes. The pale green was similar to Milo's …

“So, what do you think?” King Se'thros inquired.

What?

He glanced down into the arena, “...Their current states are unsatisfactory. It will take time before they're ready to learn combat-”

“No no no,” the king laughed, waving his hand, “What do you think  _ of me _ ?”

Atlas stared blankly.

“Well?” King Se'thros chortled, “Handsome enough? I promise you you won't find a more handsome king than I. You've always refused my invites, so I thought it appropriate to show you myself, rather than sweet words. Come come, what do you think?”

Atlas hated to admit it, because His Majesty spoke in an annoying way, but…

“Your Majesty is attractive,” Atlas answered.

King Se'thros’ eyes wrinkled warmly at that, and a familiar feeling spread throughout Atlas's chest. 

“And you, Atlas, are far more gorgeous up close than I thought. I've always invited you because of the amazing ferocity and strength you show during the tournaments. I cannot tell you how much I love seeing you take down your opponents.”

King Se'thros stood from his lavish seat and approached. His build was tall and lithe, athletic. His hair was more so a dark blond than brown.

His cockiness surprisingly didn't make him any less handsome, and Atlas didn't particularly mind when King Se'thros touched his chin and murmured into his ear.

“While I find your ferocity attractive, I can't help but desire the tender side of you even more.”

He is not tender.

Atlas replied in a low voice, just loud enough for only King Se'thros to hear, “If you have me, you are knowingly accepting whatever marks I leave on you.”

The king grinned, “Can you spare my neck?”

“No.”

“Ah well!” King Se'thros shrugged broadly, turning on his heel with a skip in his step as he returned to his seat. “Is tonight suitable?”

Atlas, while staring into those pale green eyes, thought to himself:  _ “Why not now?” _  However, upon seeing Master Rhys's cold grey stare, Atlas's desire was cut down immediately, but in its place, a cold ire arose.

_ “You are the only person who can give consent to allow others to touch your body.” _

“Tonight,” Atlas confirmed.

His Majesty smirked. “Excellent.”

 

○°☆°○

 

Milo was ready … 

Ready to join his parents in the heavens!!

The  _ moment _ Atlas pulled back his dangerous Ether, every single person collapsed onto their asses simultaneously. Milo was beginning to think the pain in his legs was worse than the pain Atlas inflicted the day before last. He absolutely wanted to cry when Atlas spoke up.

“Those of you who didn't keep up with the push ups will remain in an armstand position for thirty minutes.”

FUCK!

There was dead silence. It was the silence of absolute hopelessness and dread. Since Atlas had left for a short time, with Sift watching them, of course people discreetly tried using their Ether to ease the pain, or even get out of Atlas's hold. But it was all fruitless. Milo didn't dare try himself, he quickly saw the retaliation of Atlas's Ether whenever a foreign Ether tried to make contact, and he feared that if he tried, the red Ether would ignite the remaining gold collars on his body.

At least Milo had time to observe the colosseum. Indeed, on the inner ring wall were the same sigils that were present in the courtyard. But these sigils were incredibly large, and carved into the stone. To disrupt the shield, Milo would need all his Ether to destroy at least three of the sigils.

How could Milo ever get Atlas to remove all of his collars? A heinous thought wormed its way into his mind:  _ Use Atlas's feelings _ .

Atlas circled the group of forty liquefied newbies, and pointed to a woman, “You. Walk the perimeter.”

He asked to another individual, “You. Walk.”

Milo was just about to slip into the abyss, but then he heard Atlas's feet stop near his head, and he jumped in spite of himself. Milo blinked up at Atlas, and Atlas's gaze held no warmth whatsoever.

“Walk.”

He froze as Atlas left. Was he delusional? Was Atlas's tone different just now?

Milo found a tiny burst of confidence and didn't remember how he ever managed to get on his feet so quickly. It was a mistake, however, to move towards Atlas. His idiotic foot completely caught on the air, all power was shut down and Milo fell forward with an  _ eep! _ sound escaping his throat.

He fell into Atlas, and honestly, he would have been happier to be caught by the ground. Atlas stumbled, but grabbed Milo's forearm and steadied himself. Milo's weight squished his face into Atlas's chest. Nothing could possibly make the situation better, he was practically kissing two long scars that slashed across Atlas's skin. 

Milo dared to look up.

Atlas met his gaze with utter contempt, his nose wrinkling at Milo as if he were a rancid stench. Atlas shoved Milo off, knocking him to the ground. Milo knew he was red up to the tips of his ears in both embarrassment and approaching sunburn. That one look made Milo feel absolutely pitiful and foolish for ever holding affection towards Atlas.

It seems as though Milo truly is cut off.


	5. Cocoon

 

Disappointing. Master Rhys chose energy rich individuals, but their physical bodies were lacking. Atlas was not merciful. After issuing such punishments, the newbies were useless for a few hours. They were given lunch and water, but were not allowed in the barracks.

For the time the newbies were nursing their torn muscles, Atlas oversaw the seasoned gladiators as they fiercely sparred with one another. He showed them what was wrong with their techniques, what skills they needed to hone, and paired gladiators up with opponents that would challenge them.

Good training sessions need not take long, and deserve reward. The seasoned gladiators returned to the barracks around eleven, done with the day.

Atlas had two particular grievances. Milo, and Broken. Broken purposefully lacked in every exercise, with or without his broken fingers as an excuse. Atlas delighted in seeing him stay in a handstand for thirty minutes, putting more weight on his dominant, uninjured hand.

Despite everything, Broken still had a fire lit in his eyes, a fire of contempt and arrogance towards Atlas. Somehow, Atlas has failed to establish dominance. At this point, he didn't believe stirring up Broken's energy while he wore his collar would work.

Atlas felt dread, thinking,  _ I'm going to live with this mutt for the rest of my days _ . But then again, Broken may just be mad enough to try to turn against Atlas in the arena. Now  _ that  _ thought lightened his mood. He could kill Broken in the arena!

_ Try it _ , Atlas bid silently towards Broken.

As for Milo … he simply needed to exist. Atlas could not remove the feeling of Milo's lips on his skin, and found it difficult to reign in any desire or longing. One touch from Milo, and the wall of cold indifference Atlas built up was knocked down again.

He hoped all this would fade. Atlas had no intention of indulging his attraction to Milo, or the longing to be close. He was done with socialization altogether.

Ready to return to some sense of normalcy.

Atlas had that goal in mind, but then King Se'thros had to show himself. Atlas didn't know if he was helping himself, or causing more harm by accepting His Majesty's invite because of his somewhat blond hair and pale green eyes. His lips were also very full.

Dealing with Milo's presence and useless newbies was torture. Atlas was bored and bothered throughout the rest of the day, giving the newbies nothing but relay exercises. None if it was a good measure of agility or speed because of the punishments they received - they were considerably weaker and miserable.

Atlas was foolish to think any of them would get to use the false swords or demonstrate what they could do with their ethereal energy. Two weeks might be enough time to have them at least somewhat physically fit? Out of forty individuals, Atlas didn't have to worry too much about Milo and four others.

Once five in the afternoon rolled around, Atlas called the day done. He rarely allows himself yawn out loud, but he was so incredibly bored by these newbies, it slipped out. Good gods, if he is bored, then the audience is sure to be bored as well.

As per usual, everyone stripped and their collars were snapped back into place. Once checked for any concealed items, they were allowed into the barracks.

Atlas was the first to enter the showers and the first to leave. Sift gave him fresh clothes and a message.

“His Majesty has a war tactics meeting in the evening at eight. He would like you to be present.”

“Why?”

“His Majesty did not say any more.”

“Fine. I will have dinner and rest a bit before then.”

Sift bowed his head. As they passed by the courtyard, a whistle came from none other than Jakar, who waved to Sift cheerfully. Sift turned his mask towards Atlas just slightly.

“I don't care who you interact with,” Atlas spoke indifferently.

Sift paused, then returned a small wave to Jakar, who grinned broadly.

 

○°☆°○

 

Jakar was in good spirits! It appears Atlas has given Sift permission to interact with him, or rather, Atlas may simply not care. Atlas was the type who if you don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother you. It made him real difficult to get to know, and Jakar never did get as close as he wanted. But somehow that Milo got close, then all of a sudden Atlas was ignoring Milo’s existence.

Jakar already deduced that Master Rhys was involved. Why wouldn’t Rhys get involved? It’s all well and good when your “property” is only physical with someone else, but for Atlas to become somewhat emotionally intimate with someone, that was a completely different scenario. Of course that pig Rhys pulled on the reigns. He got too comfortable, thinking Atlas would always be indifferent.

_ That’s not how humans work, chief _ , Jakar thought laughingly at Rhys. It was bound to happen one day, Jakar just didn’t think it would be with someone like Milo, the man’s much too gentle. He thought it would be with a man as strong and as fierce as Atlas.

Honestly though? A strong, gentle spirit like Milo’s was a breath of fresh air. It’s a real pity that spirit has to change if Milo wants to survive here.

Jakar found an opportunity to speak with Sift again. Atlas went in the sleeping room to rest (along with at least thirty exhausted newbies) and Sift stood beside the arching entrance, his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him, looking like a black chess piece, a little pawn or bishop.

“Hey Sift!” Jakar jogged out of the courtyard and entered the cool hallway, stopping beside the little servant.

“Hello again, Jakar,” Sift greeted. Jakar may have been imagining it, but he heard a smile laced around those words. Sift’s voice is quite nice, in fact, something was familiar about it. 

Jakar grinned, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “I’m curious,”

“Oh?”

“When is it that you take a break and eat?”

“I go to the kitchen. The other servants must go to the servant quarters. Below the colosseum.”

“Is that where everything is? Sleeping room and cafeteria?”

Sift nodded. “Before I was granted permission to serve Atlas, I lived with everyone else. But now I have a room nearby.”

Jakar frowned. “Granted permission? You asked to serve him personally or something?”

Sift turned his head away, becoming silent.

He pursed his lips, then sighed exaggeratedly. “Aw, was I too late?”

Sift tilted his head slightly at Jakar, perhaps in a questioning manner.

Jakar smirked, “Atlas’s good looks must have gotten to you. Pity.”

It was then that Sift’s voice faltered, “Wh-that, is absolutely impossible. He’s-” Sift stopped, and once more turned his head away. His voice returned to being neutral, quiet and gentle. “Why should my decision to serve him concern you …?”

“Why? I really like you, that’s why,” Jakar said outright.

Sift froze, then slowly turned his mask to Jakar. “...Are you teasing me?”

He smiled, “That depends. Would you like it if I was joking or being honest?”

“You’re teasing me,” Sift decided. He sounded irritated.

“I’m not!” Jakar laughed. “I like your voice, and especially your hands. I want to know more about you.”

Sift’s scarred hands immediately disappeared in his sleeves. “You’re awful. Leave.”

Now, come to think of it, Sift sounded similar to Atlas.

“I mean it. Do you think I could live here for nine years and not find scars attractive? Just look at me.” Jakar rolled up his sleeves and showed Sift his arms and hands, front to back. Like every gladiator in the barracks, he was covered in scars. His right hand was especially covered. A heavily spiked mace got dragged across his hand and fingers during a tournament at some point, but he was so high on adrenaline that he didn’t notice it.

Sift was silent, and to Jakar’s delight, the servant’s fingers lightly grasped onto Jakar’s fingers. His thumb ran across the scars left by the mace. Sift really did have nice hands. His fingers were long and graceful. 

Jakar grasped Sift’s hand then, feeling for himself how delicate it was. He felt like one wrong move could break Sift’s hand. How ever did these hands endure such abuse? As Jakar’s fingers traced over the uneven skin of Sift’s hand, he confirmed the scars came from some sort of whip. What grievance could this small person have committed to be whipped so much?

“How you got these scars wasn’t beautiful,” said Jakar, “Far from it. But the scars are beautiful, because they belong to you,” he smiled. “Maybe my thinking is weird after living in the colosseum for nine years. You just see the scars on your friends as they laugh and horse around, and suddenly they’re beautiful. I hear a gentle voice and elegant hands, and suddenly every scar is very kissable.”

Jakar looked up and found Sift staring at him, very still and silent. Through the black screen in the eye holes of the mask, Sift's dark eyes glinted brightly.

Heat rose up his face, and Jakar let go of Sift's hand. “I'm sorry. I'm probably being embarrassing,” he laughed sheepishly.

“You aren't.” Sift grasped Jakar’s hand and lifted it. Sift lowered his head, and most shockingly pushed his mask upwards, just enough to reveal a pair of gentle lips and a delicate chin. His hands were so scarred, Jakar couldn't see Sift's real skin tone. It was a shade lighter than Atlas's brown skin.

Sift, with those lovely, delicate lips placed a kiss to Jakar's hand. Then, Sift put his mask back in place and spoke brightly, “You're right. Scars are indeed kissable.”

Jakar was winded. His lungs caved in and he stumbled backwards, a goofy smile forcing its way to his face. “I-yeah, uh,” he stammered incoherently, “I, dinner, you know? Talk, talk to you some time. Later. Yeah!”

He turned and fled, wobbly on his feet with his heart pounding into his ears.

“That's the way to the showers,” Sift called.

Jakar very nearly tripped. “Um! Yeah!”

Sift gave an adorable laugh as Jakar committed to his course.

 

○°☆°○

 

King Se’thros did not demand Atlas wear anything specific, so he donned the clothes he usually wore in the arena. He figured it would be appropriate for a war tactics meeting, though Atlas hadn’t a clue why His Majesty would want him present. Atlas knows how to fight, but didn’t know war strategy.

As Sift guided Atlas through the grand hallways of the colosseum, he was reminded of a rumor Milo told him.

_ “I heard the royal heirs were also used as batteries to run the K'reche Tribes’ flying ships, and forced into their armies.” _

If there are so many uses for a pure blood royal, then why would Atlas be in the colosseum for all his twenty-three years as mere entertainment? Why isn’t he and powerful individuals like Milo being used to run flying ships or serving in the army? Atlas shouldn’t be curious about the world outside of his colosseum, but he couldn’t push it away. Today was so mind numbing, his brain was desperate for  _ anything _ new.

Sift stopped before a grand double leaved door, bowed his head to the guards, and knocked. The doors immediately clicked open, and Sift stepped aside for Atlas. “His Majesty informed me his own servants will be present tonight. I will take my leave,” Sift spoke quietly.

Atlas nodded and entered the room, closing the door behind himself. The room was a fair size, with blue walls and white pillars - plain, save for the large round table at the center, where many individuals in rich silk clothes sat. Many of them appeared worn out, past their thirties and slightly cranky. 

However, upon seeing Atlas, everyone of these individuals stood, including His Majesty, King Se'thros.

“Ah! Just in time for briefing,” King Se'thros greeted. “Everyone, this is K'reche's pride and joy, Atlas. Atlas, these are my war tactics advisors and Elite Generals. There's no need for names just yet. Come, take a seat.”

King Se'thros stepped out from his own seat and gestured to it. The only problem Atlas had with it was the fact this seat was at the head of the table and was embellished with gold, as well as twice the size of any of the other chairs.

Atlas hid his displeasure and took the king's seat. Once he was seated, everyone else sat down as well while King Se'thros walked languidly around the table.

“General Dyrn, you may begin.”

General Dyrn stood. She had week old cuts and bruises on her face, but was unbothered and stood with a stern, powerful composure. She waved her hand and blue light covered the table in a grid. This grid warped as shapes rose up, forming mountains and fields that bore much detail in regards to the bumps and land formations of the area, and the colors.

Within this landscape, tiny red dots appeared, like desert ants huddled together. From the other side of a mountain, an equally sized group of golden dots sat, hidden.

General Dyrn spoke, and most oddly, she seemed to be speaking more so towards Atlas than Se'thros. “Our K'reche, Klepharic, and Javaiche troops have located General Besil's camp. There, our enemy has access to a large Illumin crystal mining village. They have no shortage of energy, and has overwhelmed our soldiers time and again. I want to take a small squad of our Silhou Elites to infiltrate the mines and bomb it.”

“With all due respect, General Dyrn,” another woman spoke up with a sharp tone that held no respect whatsoever, “Infiltration won't work, and even if it did, why would anyone allow you to bomb the mines? Have you any idea how far these mines go?”

Atlas eyed the map, irritated as the generals began to bicker. From their bickering, he assumed the greatest desire for the majority of the K'reche Tribes was to seize control of the mines. Apparently these Illumin crystals were a great power source and very vital to the Kingdom of Greensea's armies.

“Atlas,” King Se'thros spoke up, immediately silencing the bickering that has risen up from just about everyone. “Do you have any questions?”

“None.” Atlas glared at the red dots on the map. They surrounded a village. “Have any of you bothered to look at the idiotic place they are stationed? Cause a rockslide and the mountain will do everything for you.”

Silence permeated the room.

Se'thros smiled, “That would destroy the village and entrances into the mines. We want to preserve slaves and ease of access.”

“From the looks of things, you cannot have both,” said Atlas. “Let the avalanche do the work. All your soldiers will be intact. That will make the recovery of the area easier, wouldn't it? If a full battle broke out, even if they won, would there be enough soldiers to secure the mines  _ and  _ the villagers and enemy stragglers? In one swoop, you keep your troops and less word will get out.”

“Hmm,” King Se'thros’ eyes wrinkled warmly at Atlas. “I will consider it. On that note, next agenda. General Genelev.”

Is this really a war tactics meeting? 

The map changed completely into something Atlas recognized, somewhat. It looked to be a desert, though there were very few sand dunes, and many giant cracks in the ground. There was one large path connecting a massive, deep canyon. White pillars and towers stood guard along this canyon, and tall walls of energy appeared to connect these pillars and towers. Beyond this defensive wall was a city, glowing a soft gold. Golden troops traveled from this city to the wall. Meanwhile, red “ants” crawled all over the wall. It appeared some golden bundles were being held captive in one of the towers. 

General Genelev explained the situation, “This is the border wall to Klepharic. Two weeks ago, the armies of King Rosanth, led by former Crown Prince Nikalo Novalen, seized the border wall. Nikalo’s defense strategies are … elegant,” General Genelev spoke through gritted teeth. “The only way we can deploy soldiers quickly and on site is through airdrop. The canyon pass is heavily guarded with archers. The towers will shoot down all our ships if they get too close. Going all around will take two weeks longer and deplete resources. Airdropping is quickly becoming useless. They are capturing our troops mid-drop as Nikalo receives more Sky Glides.

“We cannot afford to wait for Nikalo and his troops to leave the border wall and approach Klepharic’s capital. By then, reinforcements will flood to the border wall and build a steady supply chain.”

No one spoke up. It seems this Nikalo is a formidable leader. 

“He is from the Novalen bloodline?” Atlas inquired.

“Yes, his mother evaded capture,” King Se’thros informed. 

Atlas peered at the bundles of captive gold dots held in one of the towers. “Why hasn’t he killed these soldiers?”

“We believe those are pure blood royal elite troops,” a general answered. “Nikalo has a history of keeping pure bloods. Perhaps to indoctrinate them to his cause. From what we know from the purebloods we rescued from his capture, they were treated extremely well. Nikalo has a soft spot for them. But he is still willing to kill them on the battlefield.”

Atlas crossed a leg over another, tapping his fingers on the table. So, pure bloods are indeed used as soldiers. Was everyday like a tournament? Do they face exciting new challenges with each enemy they come across?

Suddenly, as Atlas recalled the dull, boring and utterly disappointing training today, he felt envious.

“Do we have Novalen soldiers?” Atlas asked.

“Yes,” the king replied.

“How many?”

“Two hundred. The Novalen family had many family members.”

“Then,” Atlas stopped his fingers, “Disturb Nikalo. Dress his “family” in Novalen fashion and offer them up in exchange for the other soldiers he captured. Outsiders, I’ve found, are foolishly sentimental and emotional. He will not be able to cut down his own blood easily once they turn on him. Use his distraction and strike. Perhaps have more troops hiding in a disarmed ship.”

His Majesty laughed then. “Beautiful! You are as ruthless as ever, my champion.”

Atlas’s eyes once more swept over the map before him. “Are you testing me, Your Majesty?”

Se’thros simply smiled. “How intuitive.”

“I don’t expect my novice ideas to be used,” Atlas glared, “Lest I be blamed for any losses after.”

His Majesty waved his hand, “Of course you won’t be blamed. I wanted fresh eyes and ears. And you are indeed as intelligent as I had hoped. But you are indeed lacking knowledge and think very simply. All that can be improved upon, however.”

“What do you want?” Atlas asked impatiently.

“Why, I don’t want you to go to waste, Atlas,” King Se’thros walked slowly around the table. “You have amazing talent. It is time you have left the colosseum’s cocoon and spread your wings.”

“Flowery words waste breath.”

By now the generals and advisers surrounding the table were eyeing Atlas sharply for his disrespectful tone. He paid them no heed.

“Fine, dear Atlas.” Se’thros halted beside Atlas and leaned on his chair, speaking into his ear softly, “I want to make you apart of my counsel of Elite Generals. The surviving gladiators you’ve trained these ten years will become apart of your personal, superior army. I want to give you tutors and military geniuses to hone your talents. Then set you lose in the world and watch you shine in glory.”

Atlas’s heart jumped giddily, and a jittery feeling enveloped his chest, spreading to the very tips of his fingers. He could leave the colosseum. Not only that, but he will gain new knowledge and challenges. Why wait five months at a time to come across an opponent when he could come across whole armies and generals like Nikalo. And defeat them. The excitement and desire bubbling up inside of Atlas made him realize: he was never tired and aching for the grace period - he was bored and unchallenged. Tournaments and the grace period have become monotonous activities, dulling his mind to the point of tears.

Atlas wanted more. More than the measly weapons on his wall, more than his opponent’s head and the white noise of the cheering crowds. The colosseum was indeed a cocoon.

“So? What do you think?” Se’thros inquired.

“I think,” Atlas began, breaking into a grin, his eyes flashing bright, “The colosseum has become too small for me.”


	6. Love Bug

Atlas listened in on two more briefings. He no longer gave his ideas or opinions; he wanted to listen to the generals and military advisors. There was much he didn’t understand. The nuances of war and military command are complex and abundant, but he shook with anticipation, desiring nothing more than to learn all that he could from His Majesty’s council.

Unfortunately, Se’thros ended the meeting. Each of the generals and advisors stood, bowed their heads, and Se’thros waved his hand. Immediately, the forms of his generals dissipated into golden fragments of light. Only three advisors were physically present. 

Se’thros gestured to the three elders, “For now, these three will tutor you here in the colosseum. They will accommodate your schedule. Send your servant to call upon them any time you wish.”

“In the colosseum?” Atlas raised a brow at Se’thros as he slowly stood from his seat.

“Yes. I want you to continue to train the forty hopefuls, and participate one last time in the tournaments. It will serve as a perfect announcement, a farewell, as you rise to a higher purpose. Whomever is left over in the arena will join your elite forces. There is another goal I want you to accomplish, to prove you are capable.”

Atlas leaned against the table and Se’thros took his seat, leaning his head against his fingers and smirking at Atlas, “In the arena, you ignore your team. You do not aid them. In this tournament, I want you to lose no more than ten gladiators. That means you must teach your future soldiers to defend each other, to work in harmony. If you cannot do this, I will lose confidence in your ability. I cannot give you an army if less than half will return from battle. Fair?”

“How do I teach something I do not know?” Atlas asked sharply. 

“You will learn from your tutors. But your most valuable teacher lives in the barracks.” Se’thros smiled. “Jakar.”

“Jakar?”

“Any gladiator who teams up with him lives. You know this. If you accomplish your goal, I recommend making him one of your commanders. Learn from him, but keep all of this silent until the end of the tournaments.”

Though Atlas didn’t see why he should keep silent, he didn’t really care to question it. He was dreading having to continue to socialize  _ again _ .

“... Fine,” Atlas bowed his head.

Se’thros gave a humored exhale through his nose and waved towards the three military advisors. They bowed, and left the room. Then, Se’thros bid to Atlas, “Come here.”

The King tugged at the dark blue silk around Atlas’s hips and he was compelled to straddle Se’thros’ lap. Atlas’s hand dove into the King’s dark hair. It was a bit curly, with hints of blond and gold. It felt similar to Milo’s hair.

What was most similar were the eyes. The lovely, warm pale green and gentle round shape.

“Kiss me.”

Atlas’s soul shuddered and rattled his spine all the way up to his ears. Milo’s voice had completely overwritten Se’thros’. Fuck.

He did as he was commanded, stealing Se’thros’ lips fiercely. For the life of him, Atlas could not disassociate the hands at his hips from Milo’s, and the growing heat in his body further defied him.

For his mind to go so far as to erase Se’thros and replace him with Milo, Atlas was certain he would never be sane ever again.

 

○°☆°○

 

_ “RUN!” _

Milo shot upright, gasping sharply. He pulled his blanket around him and left his bed, walking gingerly out of the sleeping room. He was so concentrated on not suffocating that he didn’t remember how he got to the courtyard. It felt as though his feet had hardly moved.

“Woah. Bad dream?”

He blinked, and found Jakar lying on the chilled stone ground with his hands clasped behind his head.

Milo felt his face, and took his sleeve to his eyes and cheeks, wiping away any trace of his tears. Of course, his was the kind of face that became blotchy and red when he cried.

“This about Atlas?” Jakar asked.

“No,” Milo sniffed. “My mother and father were murdered before I was captured. And I don’t know if my little sister is alive.”

Jakar remained silent for a moment, then patted the ground beside him. “Stargaze with me.”

Milo still struggled to relearn how to breathe as he folded his blanket into a pillow and laid down beside Jakar. The Dragon’s River galaxy was a bright green, large swirling entity in the sky, surrounded by clouds of gorgeous blue and pink nebulae. The stars dusted in the sky were so numerous, a single constellation was hard to pick out.

“Are you religious, Milo?” Jakar inquired.

“Sort of.”

Jakar chortled, “Sort of?”

“I mean, I didn’t ever attend temple meetings. I don’t really think of the gods’ existence as religious … their words are more so philosophy to me.”

“Undeniably, you think the gods exist?”

Milo gave a small smile. “How could I not? Across the entire world, their images in paintings and sculptures are nearly identical. The powers they govern are the same. There are always, always twelve main gods.”

“Right, right. The big twelve. I dunno, I’ve still got doubts.” Jakar sighed. “My family supposedly came from the mortal incarnation of Himmel. The god of mercy. The god who sheds tears for us mortals, and each tear he sheds, a precious jewel adorns his wings. Where is Himmel, if he cares so much? If the gods exist, they sure are apathetic.”

Milo looked to Jakar. “You’re Jakar … Crown Prince Jakar Kavandakesh?”

Jakar hummed, “Yeah. Turned myself in in exchange for K’reche to retreat from my kingdom. Say, how’s my home doing?”

Milo turned his gaze away and breathed deeply. “Four years after you disappeared, Kai’luo was seized. But in those four years, the royal family and military evacuated itself and its citizens to my home, Carvess. Your mothers and sisters are all in good health.”

Jakar breathed out slowly and covered his face with his hands. “Okay,” he spoke shakily.

“They live in His Majesty Ceryn’s palace. I delivered your first nephew - perfectly healthy.”

“Oh gods,” Jakar laughed, sniffling, “Bes said she would only have girls. Please tell me she was pissed. What was her face like?”

“She pulled my hair and blamed me instead of her husband, but she was mostly smiling. Bes named him after you.”

Jakar’s smile disappeared, his lips pressed together tightly and his shoulders shook. Abruptly, his fist dropped onto Milo’s stomach and he yelped. “Fuck! I invited you to cheer you up, not so you could make me cry!”

Milo wheezed, “Sorry.”

Jakar dropped his hands tiredly, blinking tears from his eyes as he stared up at the stars. “Thanks, doc. I’m stuck here until the end of my days, but, at least my family is safe for now.”

“... That may not be,” Milo spoke hesitantly, and lowered his voice. “Jakar, I managed to send out a message to Carvess. Once they find out Crown Prince Amori Anatori is alive, Atlas is alive, help may come.”

Jakar stared with wide, teary eyes. “How …? But even if they got the message, we’re in the middle of the hornet’s nest. In any case, how are your sure Atlas is Amori?”

Milo sat up, grinning. “Amori is the only child conceived between Anatori and Lu’Cili! Atlas is around twenty-three years old as well. I’ve only seen his uncle a few times, but I remembered what he looks like. The resemblance is uncanny. Not to mention Atlas’s mother was the only Anatori female taken by K’reche. Everyone else escaped because she bought time by giving herself up. The Symbol of Unity can rise again with Atlas.”

The hopeful light in Jakar’s eyes dimmed and he sat up slowly, head bowed. “I like your optimism, Milo. I do. But Atlas is … he was raised here. Everything he knows was taught by Rhys. You’re the first person I’ve seen him attach to. I don’t know if that would be enough to fix him.”

“Atlas is smart. He can be reached with reason,” said Milo, “But … I don’t know if I can reach him anymore. He’s clearly cut me off. Maybe he even hates me.”

Jakar abruptly snorted. “You’re real gullible, doc. I’ve never seen Atlas like someone more. Trust me, I’ve been trying to be his friend for  _ nine  _ years. I know what his kind of hate looks like, and this ain’t it, chief. If I know Atlas at all, I know he doesn’t do anything half assed. If he’s decided to protect you and himself by staying away, he’s going to stay away as much as possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if he purposely put on a show to keep you away and to soothe Rhys’s anger. He’s efficient like that.”

“You mean cruel?” Milo muttered. “I’m not convinced. He … seemed affectionate. His smile is so sweet, you wouldn’t think he could hurt a fly. But then he turned around and watched me be tortured at his hand.”

“Now  _ I _ don’t believe you!” Jakar pushed at him lightly. “I’ve never seen Atlas smile. When was this even?”

“The night he came back from … after Rhys.” Milo rubbed down the hairs that rose up at the back of his neck. His stomach became sour. “I said he could kiss me, and that seemed to make him happy.”

Jakar nodded slowly and hummed, “Mhm, mhm. Say, question, are you a  _ fucking moron _ ? Dropped on your head? Did you pop one too many pills from your patients’ prescriptions?”

Milo sputtered, “ _ Excuse me _ ?”

“Listen  _ carefully _ .” Jakar spoke irritatingly slowly, “Atlas. It not. Bipolar. He’s in survival mode. Liking you has opened up a whole can of foul problems, and he’s trying to close the lid. We can use this!”

“No,” Milo hissed. “Maybe it’s true, but I won’t go so low as to manipulate him.”

Jakar clasped his hands together and breathed in deeply, then dropped his shoulders. “Look. Your genuine self got to him in a matter of days. Imagine if you actively pursued him! A loving ear listens the most. You can turn our enemy into an ally. Nothing is lost. You like him, he likes you, sparks fly and we can escape.”

“You talking this way makes my affections feel disingenuous,” Milo rubbed his temples.

“Thing is, they’re not. You have the advantage of being genuine.”

“Oh my gods, please stop. I’m going back to bed.” Milo gathered up his blanket and fled the courtyard.

“Don’t be afraid to pursue love!” Jakar called after him.

 

○°☆°○

 

He barely registered opening his eyes. Atlas felt so warm and comfortable, he didn't dare move or neglect to savor the new, wonderful feeling. This peace and security was different than that of the barracks … he would now describe the barracks as simply temperate and livable. Not even warm and content. 

‘Contentment’ has now become the body he pressed his back into, ‘comfortable’ was the soft breath tickling him through his hair, and ‘warmth’ was the pair of arms enveloping him.

_ “I'll stay with you as long as you want. Alright?” _

Atlas hummed groggily in answer. Milo shouldn't have ever said that. Atlas would keep him for hours, or days.

Years?

Just as he was drifting off, perhaps for good this time, Atlas was abruptly dragged out of fantasy.

“Morning,” Se'thros mumbled into his hair, pulling him closer. “I know I asked for this, my champion, but did you have to scratch me so much? Did you really?”

The fluttering warmth in Atlas's chest deflated. Milo has certainly become a disease of the mind and body! Atlas's entire being slowly began to feel heavier. Suddenly, he couldn't be further from satisfied and content, as if he hadn't spent hours rolling around with Se'thros.

Atlas tried sitting up, but Se'thros pulled him back down, placing kisses to his neck and shoulder. “Go back to sleep. Have a lazy day with me.”

His heart leapt. “What time is it?”

“Doesn't matter.” Se'thros murmured, pulling himself up only to pin Atlas's shoulders and kiss him deeply. Despite everything that told him not to be drawn in, the absence of a sun and the presence of a tongue banished Atlas's good sense.

Atlas gasped as Se'thros stroked him down below. The king slotted his dick against Atlas's in his hand and continued to ravish his lips with unrelenting kisses.

Se'thros chuckled against Atlas's lips, grabbing the hand that was digging into his back once more and pinning it down. “I think you've left enough marks on me to last a week. What am I to do with you, hm?”

It seems Se'thros found his answer, turning Atlas over on his stomach, where he couldn't leave more hickies and bites, nor drag his nails into Se'thros’ skin. 

Fair enough. Atlas would leave more marks if he could.

Se'thros kissed down the line of Atlas's back and his fingers slipped inside him. Atlas shuddered and felt a warm liquid trickle down his thigh as the fingers inside of him thrust against a particular spot, driving heat throughout his groin. 

Atlas gripped a pillow close, a whine reaching the back of his throat.

“Does that feel good?”

_ Milo _ . A hard shudder passed through Atlas's hips to his spine. “ _ Yes _ .”

A deep chuckle arose, and his hips were enveloped in two large hands. A new, searing hot presence pushed into Atlas's body, filling him up to the brim.

Se'thros pulled his hips back and snapped forward, over and over again. Atlas groaned into the pillow, desperately pushing his hips back along with Se'thros’ thrusts.

_ Milo _ . “Harder.”

_ Milo.  _ “More.”

Atlas felt Se'thros movements stutter and heard his breath hitch as he came inside, but he didn't stop. He thrust harder and faster, taking Atlas's dick into his heated hand. A pair of full, soft lips pressed to his ear, long wavy hair tracing over Atlas's back.

_ “You're gorgeous,”  _ Milo murmured.

Atlas moaned into his pillow, shuddering as he came. His hips collapsed, and Se'thros gathered him up in his arms, once again spooning him.

The king laughed cheerily and spoke through smirking lips, “Whose name did you just call?”

Atlas's labored breaths came to a halt and nearly all warmth drained from his body. “I didn't-” 

“You did. Relax. I'm not in love with you, I don't care if you have another man on your mind.” Se'thros shifted, to look upon Atlas with a grin and eager, shining eyes. “Well then? Who is it? I must know, come come, spill!”

Atlas glared nastily. “No.”

Se'thros pouted, “I'm not going to hunt him down.”

“But Master Rhys will.”

The king smiled gently then. “Rhys won't know a thing. In fact, if he harms a single hair on your dear one's head, then all you have to do is tell me. Hm? How's that? Tell me about him. What kind of man can conquer this colosseum's champion?”

“I am not conquered,” Atlas hissed beneath his breath, heat traveling from his chest up to his ears. “He's… beautiful.”

Se'thros was grinning giddily now, as if he were being let in on a secret. “Is that all?”

Atlas's body was becoming insufferably hot. He's never spoken in this manner, let alone with someone else. He has never put his thoughts towards Milo on his tongue.

“Sweet, and gentle. Probably very smart.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently he's a doctor.”

Se'thros snorted, “You don't sound happy about that.”

“He has natural strength and energy levels I have never seen before. But he chose to be a doctor?” Atlas rolled his eyes up into his head. “... Though, I can't see him being any other way.”

“So. That big fella with all that long blond hair?” Se'thros smirked.

Atlas raised a brow.

“Through the viewing glass, I saw all the collars that had to be put on him. Simple deduction. What's his name?”

“Milo…”

“Ahh. “Merciful.” A wonderful name for a doctor. Not for a gladiator. You best pay special attention to him, if you want him to live.”

Atlas breathed outward slowly. “Mn.”

“Hmph,” Se'thros chortled and bit Atlas's earlobe, “Well then, would you like to go again? You may call your Milo's name as much as you'd like.”

This king … is really something else.

 

○°☆°○

 

There was ample confusion in the morning. For one? Atlas was not there to wake them up, so they overslept past eight. Two, Atlas didn't show at all for the rest of the morning.

Milo was simultaneously worried sick and relieved. After destroying his legs yesterday, it would have been unhealthy to continue training and an utter agony. But where was Atlas?

Was he with Rhys? Was Rhys in the viewing platform yesterday and saw Milo come into contact with Atlas? Every time Milo thought of where Atlas might be, he shuddered and couldn't breathe.

Is he going to see bruises and wounds on him again and be unable to comfort him?

Milo tried to calm himself. During lunch, he sat with Jakar, Thane, Gregory and Hans in the courtyard, trying to focus on a conversation with them. He simply couldn't.

But then, Atlas finally made an appearance with Sift. Milo's eyes were glued to him, his heart racing as he analyzed his strides and face. He walked with his powerful composure, taking smooth steps. His face was neutral as he spoke to Sift, then went into the sleeping room.

Abruptly, Milo yanked on one of Jakar's braids.

“Ow! Milo, what the fuck? Are you five?” Jakar whapped his arm.

“Atlas is back. Go talk to Sift and see what happened.”

“Go yourself, you coward.”

“You gushed over Sift for over half an hour. He's right there.”

Jakar groaned and stood, grabbing Milo by his collar and yanking him to his feet, successfully dragging him across the courtyard to Sift.

“Hi Sift!” Jakar greeted cheerfully.

“Afternoon, Jakar,” Sift welcomed, sounding awfully happy to see the prince. “How are you? And why are you dragging Milo?”

Jakar grinned, absolutely smitten with the masked servant. “Now that you're here? I'm doing great. Ah, and Milo wants to know if Atlas is doing okay.”

Milo dropped his reddening face into his hand as Jakar spoke loudly. 

Sift turned his head away for a moment before clearing his throat and looking to Jakar once more. “Atlas is doing very well, Milo. No need to worry.”

Jakar finally let go of Milo's collar. “I tried telling him that  _ all  _ morning, but he's incurable. The love bug is insidious!”

“Oh my gods, shut up!” Milo whispered sharply, his entire face and ears growing red. He prayed Atlas didn't hear anything.

“I'm sorry, a love bug?” Sift sounded to be withholding laughter, mostly directed towards Milo.

Jakar grinned smoothly and propped his arm on the wall, leaning towards Sift. “Mhm. The love bug ensures you can't stop thinking about someone, all you want to do is see them, and when you're apart from that person, all you can do is miss them. Milo diagnosed me with the love bug too, ain't that right, doc?”

Milo glared at Jakar and turned on his heel, promptly leaving the gladiator to flirt. His face was so hot, he could cook an egg on it! That Jakar himself is insidious!

He entered the showers and removed everything but his pants, then bent over and stuck his head under a showerhead, dowsing himself in chilling water. Milo cooled down his embarrassment a bit, but he was still pissed. He wished he could get revenge, maybe by telling Sift how much Jakar was gushing over him, but Jakar was a confident and shameless person. He wouldn't at all be affected.

Milo turned off the shower and sighed, pushing all his hair back. Out of  _ nowhere _ , he was met with Atlas's dark, sharp, lovely gaze. His heart stopped, and part of him shook in fear as he recalled the pain Atlas inflicted. Can Milo not even inquire about Atlas’s wellbeing? Is he here to send another message?

Atlas shut the door, and spoke softly. “Love bug?”

His mouth fell open, but Milo couldn't say a word, especially when all the blood in his body rushed to the surface once more. Jakar!!

Atlas stared at Milo for a solid second before rushing up and pulling him down, capturing Milo's lips. His heart thumped sharply, and his eyes slid shut, gathering Atlas in his arms tightly. Milo sighed through his nose, and finally felt as though he could breathe again.

Atlas kissed him with such a fierce passion, tangling his fingers into Milo’s wet hair. Gradually, their kisses morphed into a slow and deep rhythm. Atlas hummed contently, nipping at Milo’s bottom lip and kissing him lightly several times before diving his tongue past Milo’s lips once more.

Milo broke the kiss with much difficulty, failing twice before managing to keep himself from being drawn in by Atlas’s addictive lips. He did, however, leave a couple kisses to Atlas's cheek and hair, hugging him close. 

“Are you really okay?” Milo asked a little breathlessly.

“I am,” Atlas replied, burying his face in Milo's neck. “More than okay.”

Milo jumped as he heard laughter outside of the showers, and when the door swung open, Atlas had completely disappeared, like a desert mirage.

“...”

“If it isn't Atlas's abandoned mutt!” Ells greeted as he and two others entered the showers. These new friends of Ells’ looked rather sleazy, and happened to be apart of the large group that were punished twice during training. “My offer still stands, you know.”

Milo glared. “The moment you get near him, I'll-”

“You'll what?” Ells sneered. “Gods, you're pathetic. Get out of my face, seeing you desperate to hump that slut's leg makes me sick.”

Milo clasped his hands together and breathed deeply, closing his eyes.

“Gonna chant a mantra? I said-UGACK!”

Ells made the most odd, guttural sound as Milo dragged his fist up into his stomach, causing Ells to stumble and fall to his ass.

“No mantra. I just needed to get that out of my system,” Milo smiled pleasantly, the tension leaving his shoulders as he hopped over Ells’ fetal position and retrieved his robes.

As he walked down the hallway from the showers, he felt a hand take his and squeeze it lightly. He froze on the spot, and then felt a pair of lips kiss his jaw. Milo covered his mouth to keep from laughing. Even if Atlas stood on his toes, he wouldn't be able to reach Milo's lips.

Milo squeezed Atlas's hand back and bent down just a bit, enough to receive one last, sweet kiss from his prince. After that, Atlas's hand left him, and no doubt Atlas snuck back into the sleeping room while Sift was being flirted with.

 

○°☆°○

 

Atlas was indescribably foolish. He spent the whole morning with Se'thros, having sex on and off, talking about Milo and sometimes war tactics. Atlas had never spent so much time with a single individual before, and was surprised by Se'thros around every corner. The king couldn't possibly be any more different than Master Rhys.

Se'thros indulged Atlas's desire for Milo, and Atlas stupidly took the opportunity. At first he felt content, thinking this may curb the desire and even bring him back to sanity.

However, just knowing Milo was nearby when he came back to the barracks unsettled his calm. Knowing Milo was worried about him despite everything Atlas did to him … hearing about this “love bug” as well, and having it match Atlas's feelings, shattered his rationale. Logic be damned, safety be damned, he wanted to see and touch Milo.

Indescribably foolish.

Atlas didn't want this love bug. He suspected, with great horror, it was the early symptoms of that one worded disease “love.” The thought of becoming as pathetic as Thane one day made him want to vomit. 

If he just had sex with Milo, would all of this go away? Or would it become worse?

As well as being sick in the mind and stomach, Atlas had a small fever when he woke up from his nap. Rendering himself invisible in his environment for so long drained his energy, and he helped himself none by putting on his collar, stifling production of his energy by half.

Later, he will meditate, but for now, Atlas needed to speak with Jakar, for more reasons than one.

At dinner time, Atlas approached Jakar's crowded table. Jakar was attentive, he spoke with everyone, joked with them, laughed and whatnot. He and Atlas were complete opposites. Even the people sitting around Jakar at different tables joined in on whatever nonsense they found to discuss.

Ah, but the fun appeared to dim significantly with Atlas's presence. These were mostly the seasoned gladiators, they were not entirely afraid of Atlas anymore, but seeing him approach such a large crowd outside of training was new and bizarre.

Their stares and silence quickly became unbearable.

“Jakar,” Atlas addressed, “I want to speak with you.”

He turned and left, going right back to his empty corner of the cafeteria, where he could breathe easy. Atlas sat at his table with his dinner and saw Jakar approach with his own plate and a small frown.

He had a brief smile for Sift, though.

“Sooo, what do you want to talk about?” Jakar asked with confused laughter wrapped around his words as he took a seat across from Atlas. “You've never wanted to really talk with me before.”

Atlas opened his mouth, then closed it. He dropped his gaze and tried again, a hostile note in his voice, “The love bug. How can it be gotten rid of?”

Jakar stared at him.

“ _ Well _ ? Do you know how?” Atlas hissed.

“Uhh,” Jakar's mouth moved oddly and he coughed into his hand, breathed in, then held a straight face. “Alright, uh, it's not, er. How do I put this? Okay, the “love bug” is a cute way to name infatuation. It's not really a cold where there's a “cure,” per se.”

Atlas glared, “Infatuation?”

Jakar cleared his throat once more. He seemed to be trying to suppress something, but Atlas could see it lighting up Jakar's eyes. 

Was he suppressing laughter?

“If you cannot take me seriously, then leave,” Atlas spat, heat climbing up his face. 

“I'm sorry! It's because you take everything so seriously that I can't help but find it funny,” Jakar now grinned. “I'm not making fun of you though. I know you must be pretty worried about what you feel for Milo.”

Atlas's hand clenched into a fist and he looked away, unable to say anything, much less deny Jakar's words. Jakar has only gotten more perceptive of Atlas, despite his efforts to stay away from him.

“Infatuation by itself is a passion or love  that usually dwindles out. Usually based on attraction,” Jakar explained patiently. “But it can turn into something more as you get to know the person you're attracted to. None of this is something you can pluck out. You can't force feelings to fade. It's all left up to chance. Everyone is different, but I'm willing to bet distance from Milo isn't going to prevent your feelings from developing.”

Atlas's heart shuddered and his lungs wouldn't allow air in or out. He can't let his infatuation grow … but distance won't even help him? What can he do?

Jakar was silent, watching Atlas with his head tilted a bit. Then, he said, “It can be scary. But there are great things that can come from love, any kind of love. From the sounds of things, you must feel safe with Milo. What are you worried about?”

Atlas swallowed hard, and murmured, “Thane.”

Jakar breathed in deeply, and sighed through his nose. “Oh.”

Atlas hissed beneath his breath, “I cannot be lowered to such a pathetic state.”

“It's a human state,” said Jakar. “If a broken heart is what you're most afraid of, then I've got only one solution.”

He met Jakar’s gaze intently, and Jakar's next words cut through him. “Protect him. Milo is not safe here. He will  _ never  _ be safe in the colosseum. No one is. Maybe you can't control where your heart goes, but you can control where Milo is. You have more power and influence than you realize.”

So, get Milo out of the colosseum. Atlas can do that … once he proves to Se'thros he can protect most of the gladiators. Milo only has to survive one round of tournaments, then Atlas could appoint him as an official doctor and Milo may never have to fight on the battlefield. He could be safe that way.

Se'thros also told Atlas to come to him, should Master Rhys harm Milo. Could he... get Se'thros to put a preemptive leash on his master?

Atlas's heart skipped at the thought, in both fear and delight. Master Rhys could most definitely be restrained … but His Majesty wasn't here anymore, he returned to his palace. Atlas will have to wait until Se'thros’ next visit.

“Evening!”

Atlas's soul jumped out of him and his eyes shot up, following the large hand that had set a plate full of food on the table to Milo's bright, big, shining gaze, all his long blond hair spilling over his shoulder.

Milo smiled softly for Atlas and sat down next to Jakar. The table was plenty broad and it was the farthest seat from Atlas, but the distance still seemed much too close for comfort.

It was a foolish mistake to show Milo affection!!

Leave!!

“You're chipper,” Jakar grinned, raising a brow at Milo.

“A change of perspective goes a long way,” said Milo.

Atlas glanced up and found his little bird up on its perch, peering down curiously. No doubt it was confused to see not only one, but  _ two  _ people sitting with Atlas. Eight years together alone, and suddenly there are invaders.

The invasion was yet to end! Another plate fell upon the table and Gregory dropped beside Milo, slapping his hands on the table. Usually Gregory glowed with youthfulness, but today there were deep bags under his eyes.

“Doc! I've stopped having to shit so often, but it still itches! What the fuck, Milo, what the fuck?”

Milo rolled his eyes, “The treatment takes time. You aren't touching it, are you?”

Gregory gritted his teeth. “No. I'm going insane. I exploded in my goddamn sleep! Is that gonna make things worse?”

“It shouldn't, as long as you aren't touching it. You need to try to rest.”

The gladiator barked out a laugh, “Yeah,  _ how _ !? I need sedation, doc.”

“You need to learn your lesson and use protection, is what.”

“You slut shaming me?”

Milo shook his head. “What gave you that idea? I don't believe being a “slut” is a thing. Sex is a natural need for most people. What I shame is  _ unprotected _ sex when you are active with multiple partners. If it's with just one, then there isn't too much to worry about, but it is incredibly irresponsible to not have protection with multiple individuals. They should have had a sex-ed crash course for all of you.”

Gregory groaned, “Alright  _ Dad _ . So how about that sedation?”

“Out of the question, you don't need it. Besides, it will ruin the effect of the treatment. Haven't you ever done denial-play? Think of it as something like that.”

“Oh,” Gregory frowned at his dinner. “ _ Oh _ .”

Jakar snorted into his hand and patted Milo on the back. “For someone with such an innocent face, you sure do know a lot about kinky stuff.”

Milo laughed a bit. “I've been privy to the various activities of patients. Something goes wrong and they overshare to explain themselves, and save some dignity. It's not necessary, but,” he shrugged.

Gregory hummed, then looked to Atlas with a glint in his tired, dark green eyes. “Speaking of, how was the king, Attie? For you to be gone from eight at night to noon the next day, he must be  _ exquisite _ .”

Atlas didn't care to respond and simply ate his dinner. He also didn't care to know how Gregory knew he was with the king. Maybe he was eavesdropping when Sift told Atlas he was invited to a war tactics meeting with Se'thros. 

However, Atlas's neutral mood pulled back when he looked to Milo. Their eyes met briefly, but Milo looked away, his “chipperness” had faded and his brows were knitted together. He appeared confused, but also … angry?

Angry about what?

Se'thros?

Atlas bit his tongue, swallowing down his urge to speak to Milo.  _ Why are you angry? Are you angry at me, or the king? _ What is going through Milo's head right now?

At that, another invader came along, and it was none other than Thane.

“Hey, what's going on? Annoying Atlas party?” Thane sat down, his tone somewhat light, but since losing Lory, his voice came off dull.

Four. Four people were sitting with Atlas.

Why???

“Hm,” Milo mumbled gloomily, appearing more angry as he shoveled sliced carrots into his mouth.

Atlas shut his eyes, his heart becoming oddly jittery with heat swimming around his head. His hand was sweaty in seconds. He hasn't ever sat with so many people before in the cafeteria. Remarkably, he knew all of their names. How could Jakar stand being surrounded by everyone? Atlas couldn't handle four, let alone twenty. 

“You okay, Atlas?” Jakar asked.

He opened his eyes, finding Jakar staring at him with some concern. That wasn't too out of the norm. What unsettled Atlas were the concerned looks from Thane and even Gregory, despite Atlas utterly ignoring him for years.

Milo seemed to have put his anger aside somewhere to look Atlas over. “You don't have a fever, do you?”

“Uh, what? Him? Atlas has never gotten sick.” Gregory frowned. “Unless he's allergic to socializing.”

That must be it! He's leaving!

As soon as Atlas moved, he bent forward, just a bit, as if his spine couldn't hold the weight of his head. His stomach lurched when the floor seemed to sway back and forth like water. 

Atlas snatched onto Sift’s sleeve, gasping, “Get, get Rhys, Sift…” A wave of heat passed over him, much like the harsh winds of a sandstorm. All feeling left his body, and he collapsed to the floor.

“Atlas!”

“Holy shit-”

 

○°☆°○

 

Milo’s heart raced. Atlas suddenly appeared so small in Jakar’s arms as he raced to the infirmary. In moments, Atlas’s complexion paled, his body shivered violently and even in his weak state, he tried to claw at his neck as bright veins of red light crawled beneath his skin. Tears streamed down his face.

As soon as Jakar settled him onto a bed in the infirmary, Atlas curled up into himself, completely digging his nails into his own neck.

Jakar had the good sense to grab Atlas’s wrist and tie it down by a leather strap attached to the bed. Atlas cried out sharply, a wave of crackling red energy escaping his body and lighting up the collar around his neck.

“Milo, Milo what’s wrong with him?” Jakar asked in panic, pushing Atlas down to keep him from thrashing. Jakar found another leather strap and crossed it over Atlas’s chest. For good measure, Jakar tied his ankles to the bed as well.

“I …” Milo shook his head. Atlas’s deep black eyes were suddenly red, his pupils could hardly be seen, they were nothing but pinpricks. Atlas looked like a drug addict.

“Milo!” Jakar shoved at him, “It’s his Core isn’t it? Get out of your head!”

His heart leapt in his throat and he had to swallow it down. “He, he needs to be sedated.”

A shaking servant in the corner pressed their hand against the empty wall and a drawer slid out. Milo rushed to it, moving his hands through bottles after bottles of sedatives. He found what he needed and the servant provided a needle. Milo tore it out of the package and with practiced hands, he drew out the clear liquid.

With everything he had in him, Milo sent his Ether into the needle. Every single one of his collars glowed and burned against his skin. His eyes nearly smoldered from the green light in them.

Milo gasped when withdrew his Ether. The medicine in the needle now glowed and hummed an ethereal green light. “Jakar,” Milo panted, “Hold him still.”

Jakar promptly pinned Atlas’s shoulders down, and Milo pushed open Atlas’s robes, baring his abdomen. Atlas was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Milo pressed his arm down across Atlas’s chest and aimed the needle just below his ribcage, then plunged the needle in, releasing the sedative straight into Atlas’s Core.

Green light flooded throughout Core veins, including the angry red veins lighting up Atlas’s neck. Atlas gave a strangled breath, his body tensing, shaking uncontrollably. The soft green light dissipated, and the angry red Ether in Atlas’s irises poured away. Tears dribbling endlessly down his face, and a small sob left Atlas.

“Milo,” he murmured hoarsely.

Jakar stepped away. Now that Atlas was significantly calmed down, Jakar undid all of the leather straps.

Milo smoothed his hand over Atlas’s forehead. His temperature was much too high. “I’m here,” Milo murmured, tucking Atlas’s damp hair behind his ear.

“What happened to him?” Jakar asked quietly.

“I … it looked like an attack, like a heart attack. If one uses their Ether without a conduit, like a spell, or proper training, then the raw energy of their Core can bounce back and cause disruption, triggering an attack. But,” Milo shook his head, “An Ether attack doesn’t show on the surface like that. The Core doesn’t output any Ether during an attack like his did. Let alone invade veins that aren’t meant for Ether. This looked like … withdrawal.”

“From drugs?” Jakar frowned. “No drugs can make it in here.”

Atlas had all but passed out, his lashes hanging low over his glossy black eyes. He kept his exhausted gaze to Milo, and had turned on his side a bit, to grab hold of Milo's sleeve. Some color might've returned to his face, but Milo couldn't be sure, he was still unnaturally pale either way.

There was a stinging, bubbling question rising up in Milo, but he was scared to ask it, let alone think about it.

Jakar rubbed the back of his neck, a hand on his hip. “I mean… when it came time for Atlas to “breed” two years ago, he couldn't do it. Rhys then hiked him up with aphrodisiacs? But even those failed. Could those drugs have done something like this?”

Milo's stomach soured and he breathed deeply. “No. If I had most of my collars off, I could find out.” He once more felt Atlas's forehead and stood upright. “For now, his fever needs to be brought down.”

He looked to the servant that stood off to the side. “Do you have any cooling pads? If not, ice works.”

The servant bowed their head, “I will acquire ice then.”

“Thank you. Jakar, keep an eye on him. I'll go get some water.”

As soon as Milo tried to leave, Atlas snagged on his sleeve and weakly pulled on him. “No,” Atlas croaked.

Jakar smiled and clapped Milo on the shoulder. “Best if you stay here, doc.”

Milo sighed, but he was actually quite happy, or rather, as happy as anyone could get in such a situation. He couldn't be happy for long of course. In front of a servant, Milo carelessly touched Atlas. Perhaps it would have been fine when he had to insert the needle, but then he continued to touch Atlas outside of the bounds of necessity. 

Will he be losing his left hand? His right? It's a very good thing he's ambidextrous. Milo will be fine, but Atlas? Would Rhys honestly cut out his tongue? Or subject him to other torments?

Milo let go of a shaky breath, and spoke gently. “Atlas, I'll stay, but you need to let go.”

“No.”

He couldn't help the small smile making it to his face. Atlas somewhat felt rather spoiled at the moment, just like a prince.

Milo glanced at the doorway and smiled at Atlas, playfully tugging on a bit of his hair. “How about a compromise? I'll give you a kiss, and you let go.”

Atlas shook his head. “I won't compromise.”

“Might as well.”

Milo's soul chilled at the deep, raspy voice that dragged down his spine. He looked to the doorway, and a figure in black robes stood there with the menace of a demon. His iris was so devoid of color, it could hardly be seen from afar.

Rhys growled low, “I see now whose tongue should be torn away the most.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy, got caught up to the chapters on put on Wattpad. I have a tentative schedule of posting a chapter every Friday around 6pm MST ^v^


	7. Given and Taken

 

“Continue. Give me a reason to mutilate your face as well,” Rhys smiled chillingly.

Atlas immediately let go of Milo's sleeve, straining to speak through a hoarse voice, “Master.”

Rhys's attention was grabbed, and he snapped his fingers. “Restrain the blond.”

Two large servants immediately piled into the room, seizing hold of Milo's arms and yanking them behind himself. A servant kicked the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees.

Rhys approached and sat at Atlas's bedside. He snapped his fingers once more, and Sift appeared. In Sift's shaking hands, he held a thin, dark wood box, of which he presented to Rhys, lifting the lid.

Milo watched Rhys take out a syringe and a long vial. This vial held the most obscene, glowing red substance Milo had ever laid eyes upon. It radiated raw energy.

“You're Core is rather greedy this month, dear Amory,” Rhys commented, “How wonderful. Perhaps after this, you will return to yourself.”

Milo watched as Rhys filled the entire syringe, and his heart grew cold the longer he witnessed the way the substance moved and pulsed.

“That's, that's Anathema,” Milo's voice trembled.

Rhys looked to Milo, smirking. “You're rather smart, Doctor Hale. Perhaps too smart.”

“You've been corrupting his Core,” Milo's nails dug into his palms.

“I've been strengthening it,” Rhys hmphed. “Nearly all his life, not a sniffle to be had. Faster than any gladiator. Stronger. The artificial merging of Anathema and Ether has been rather successful.”

“You're making his Core addicted to Anathema!” Milo shouted, his voice withering in emotion, “This isn't merging. This is, is a violation of nature.”

Rhys burst out laughing. “That is rich coming from you, Doctor! Your very existence is a violation of nature. But look how powerful you are. A perfect product. So powerful, you don't even need trivial things like hands, or a tongue. Let alone an intact face.”

It was then that Atlas grasped Rhys’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. He could hardly keep his eyes open, his fever was climbing higher and sweat soaked his hair. His voice was frail, “I don’t, don’t want, to feel this way to him … anymore, Master. Don’t bother with him… please pay attention, to me.”

Rhys’s voice softened as he chuckled. Milo’s stomach churned in disgust as Rhys kissed Atlas’s brow, “Very well, sweet prince.”

The moment Rhys pointed the needle towards Atlas’s Core, Milo wrenched an arm free and shot his elbow into a servant’s neck. He roared, his hair immediately yanked back, “STOP!!”

The needle pierced, and the raw, liquified Anathema sunk downward, pouring into Atlas’s Core eagerly. Atlas’s eyes flew open, flooding with crimson light, a strained gasp leaving him. His back arched and crackling strings of corrupted Ether climbed out of his body, like the legs of a spider. Then, the lightning converged inside of his body once more, causing a ripple of raw energy, pervading the entire room. 

Milo felt as though his soul had sunk into Oblivion just by playing witness to this heinous act. His heart was still here, aching, trying to beat whilst invaded by knives.

Atlas’s body relaxed, his eyes fell shut and he breathed in smoothly. In seconds, his skin warmed, darkening to a healthy hue. Luster even returned to his hair. When next his eyes opened, a clear red gleam shone. Atlas sat up slowly and buried his face into Rhys’s chest, clinging to him tightly.

“Thank you,” Atlas murmured. 

Rhys hummed, smiling into Atlas’s hair. “Rest now, my prince.”

 

○°☆°○

 

Jakar had a front row seat, and he wished he could have remained ignorant of the horrors he’d seen. All these years, Atlas’s Core was being fed Anathema. He always knew something was wrong with his Ether, but never thought it was because of something so, so disgusting and corrupt.

The whole ordeal around Atlas brought a handful of gladiators to witness this event alongside Jakar, and he wished that would be the last of it. However, once Atlas passed out, Master Rhys ordered for his personal servants to drag Milo to the courtyard, and chain each arm to separate columns.

The sick bastard Rhys had a chair pulled out right in front of Milo, and Jakar heard his final order to a servant. “Whip him until he begs.”

The servant nodded and cracked their knuckles. Out of their robes, they pulled out a whip decorated in tiny barbs, and placed themselves some distance behind Milo.

Nobody could tear their eyes away. Milo knelt, but his back was straight, he met Rhys’s chilling gaze with utter, heated defiance. Jakar once thought Milo could never be scary, much less intimidating with his sun kissed, freckled cheeks and big, sweet eyes. Well, there was no man more frightening than Milo right at that moment. His handsome face was contorted in malice.

The whip struck. Milo gritted his teeth, a cry at the back of his throat. Each strike seemed to bring Milo closer to crying out, but he always swallowed down his voice. ‘Course, he was the type to cry easily, tears and sweat dripped down his chin. His red eyes amplified the pale green, sharpening the color into a knife, constantly meeting Rhys’s gaze with the most tenacious defiance.

“Do you honestly believe you’re putting on a heroic show? For who? Atlas?” Rhys mocked, “For this little infatuation? You are here because of mere lust. You just couldn’t keep to yourself, could you?”

Blood painted the sandstone. The servant was becoming breathless and even switched hands. Milo hadn’t said a single word, much less a plea. His head was bowed, and his nails dug into his palms, straining against the chains pulling at his arms. Milo’s body trembled, blood soaked into his robes that clung around his waist.

Jakar had never witnessed a man cry silently in pain and simultaneously appear strong. Inspiring even. There was some swell of pride in Jakar as Milo abruptly found a burst of strength, straightening his mutilated back and lifting his tearful gaze to once more meet Rhys’s head on.

The servant now dropped their arm, tired. “Master. He’s lost too much blood. Probably got numb.”

Jakar held his breath as Rhys stood calmly from his chair and approached Milo. From his robes, Rhys produced a golden rod, and at the end of it was a palm sized emblem. It was Rhys's personal family emblem, and Rhys poured his energy into it, causing the branding rod to glow a bright, searing orange.

Rhys yanked on Milo's hair, pulling his head back to bear his neck.

Milo had the balls to smile. No one could see Rhys's expression, but they could clearly see the pained, but cocky lift of Milo's lips.

Jakar looked away when Rhys lifted the brand, but a voice rang out, utterly shattering the quiet tension.

“Master Rhys! His Majesty will not be pleased,” Sift called beside Jakar, his voice steady. But his hands were hidden in his sleeves.

Rhys hissed and let go of Milo, stepping away even. This was unheard of. Every gladiator eyed each other in confusion. Rhys was not a man known for self restraint.

Jakar frowned between Sift and Rhys. Why would the king care what is done with Milo? Yes, he's powerful, but a brand isn't crippling, he would still be able to fight once it's healed.

Rhys's raspy voice shook from rage, “Keep him like this overnight. Just barely alive. Do not let anyone touch him.”

Rhys turned on his heel and Sift immediately bowed his head, shrinking as he was approached. Rhys hissed beside Sift's ear, “You belong to the king now, is that it?”

“The king,” Sift's voice was frail now, “Has commanded me to report on Milo regularly. I dare not refuse. If I keep details from him…”

Rhys's composure tensed, and he said nothing. With a flick of his robes, he left with heavy, angry footsteps. Everyone pressed their backs to the walls to avoid him and as soon as Rhys disappeared around the corner, they all shifted their attention to Milo once more. Jakar hadn't looked away, his heart sunk just as Milo's strong composure did.

His head hung low, his bloodied hair falling forward, hiding his face. He was so exhausted, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. Telling by how limp he appeared, Milo had passed out cold.

“Good gods, he went through this because of Atlas,” a gladiator hissed.

“That Rhys slut doesn't care about anyone but himself.”

“This poor sap is the fool. Can't stay away from a heartless beauty like Atlas.”

Jakar exhale shakily and a jittery pressure in his chest exploded, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The crowded hallway silenced.

Jakar gave a shivering hiss through his gritted teeth as he eyed the gladiators, pointing towards Milo, “That man is not foolish. I have never seen anyone stronger and I couldn't be prouder to see him steal away pleasure from Rhys. As for Atlas? He's being fed Anathema! He's been raised here, he's been a target for abuse and raped at Rhys's leisure.  _ This _ is why he keeps away! You all make me sick. Milo's the only one here who truly treated Atlas as a goddamn human being instead of a proxy for Rhys, or a caged feral animal. He sees the injustice, yeah he's smitten, but he's also a fighter. How can you look at that perfect defiance, that wonderful will and regal composure surpassing that Rhys bastard's meager existence and still call him foolish? I watched Atlas lower himself to distract Rhys from his anger, to keep Milo safe. Atlas is difficult, but the person to blame is, and always has been, Rhys!”

Jakar breathed a bit heavily, heart thudding rapidly in anger. He always kept calm and easy going throughout the years, and unfortunately stayed quiet whenever his friends started to bash on Atlas. It is quite sad that this was the last straw, with Atlas throwing away dignity without a second thought to protect Milo, and Milo being whipped unconscious.

He was met with silence from his fellow gladiators, and most kept their gaze to the ground. Jakar tried to regain some calm, and noticed that Sift had disappeared. There was really only one way for him to go, so Jakar went down the hall opposite of the gladiators. He made two left turns into a hallway with a dead end. The sun had shifted enough to no longer shine through the high up windows, so the hallway was somewhat dark.

Sift was a dark shadow in a corner. Maybe he'd appear scary, were it not for the quiet shuddering sobs.

“Sift,” Jakar called softly as he approached. He placed a hand on Sift's shuddering shoulder, but was smacked away.

“Leave,” Sift further pressed his head into the corner.

His quivering voice was clear as day. That's when Jakar saw Sift's mask on the floor. 

“Tell me what's wrong,” Jakar murmured. He didn't try to see Sift's face, in fact, he kept himself somewhat directly behind him. Of course Jakar was curious, but not curious enough to invade Sift's privacy.

Sift let go of a sob, “Everything.”

Jakar pressed his hand against Sift's back and rubbed up and down soothingly. “Yeah.”

“I can't, I can't do anything right,” Sift sobbed, “None of this would have happened if I didn't report on Atlas's behavior. Milo makes him happy and I ruined it.” 

“Don't blame yourself. Rhys manipulates the very way people think once they're stuck in these walls.”

“I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER!” Sift cried, striking his fists into the wall. His voice wilted as he himself wilted to his knees, “All I ever wanted was to protect him. I just want him safe and happy, but that will never happen now. I hurt him like everyone else.”

Jakar hated the utter sadness in Sift's voice. His heart broke with each word. How could he ever make Sift see that he wasn't at fault? 

Jakar breathed in unsteadily, trying to blink away the water in his eyes. “You love your brother very much, don't you?”

Sift hung his head even lower, shaking more vividly. “You shouldn't know that.”

“I would be dumb not to. I have seven sisters. I know the kind of love siblings have for each other. I let myself be captured to protect my family.” Jakar picked up Sift's mask and reached over Sift's shoulders from behind, carefully placing his mask back on before tugging him out of the corner and into his arms.

Sift sobbed and buried his head into Jakar's chest, embracing him tightly.

Jakar rubbed Sift's back. “Don't blame yourself and make Rhys's shoulders lighter. It's not right that the only person who loves Atlas the most blame themselves while the real culprit goes on feeling blameless.”

Sift didn't say anything for quite some time. He huddled in Jakar's arms and continued to cry quietly. Jakar was afraid he might break Sift with one wrong move; his frame was delicate and small. Very,  _ very _ unlike the stature of a gladiator, especially Sift's brother. 

“Sift, how old are you?” Jakar inquired gently when Sift's breathing calmed down.

Sift sniffed, “Twenty, I think.”

Around three years after Atlas was born. Sift isn't a child of the Lu’Cili prince Atlas's mother married.

Jakar asked quietly, his heart racing. “Who... is your father?”

“All I know is that he was a guard,” Sift seemed to take a moment to swallow hard, “Master Rhys killed him.” Sift gave a small, pitiful laugh, “That was my fault. I killed my mother too, upon birth.”

“Not even close!” Jakar grasped Sift's shoulders and pulled away, just enough to look Sift in the eye, “I beg of you, stop blaming yourself. Has Rhys told you these disgusting lies? You were just a babe, not even a day old. No bigger than a whole melon.”

“It doesn't matter!” Sift spoke harshly, turning his head away, “I have paid for it.”

Jakar watched Sift wring his scarred hands agitatedly. Knowing Rhys … he didn't just stop at Sift's hands.

“Jakar,” Sift's voice had quieted, and he gripped Jakar's sleeve. “Please don't tell Atlas any of this.”

“Why doesn't he know?” Jakar grasped Sift's hand in both of his. “Maybe knowing he has family will make him happy.”

Sift shook his head, “I can't make him happy.”

“Sift, he needs a brother now more than ever. He needs to know that he is loved. As do you. When Atlas sees what Rhys has done, he's going to need you.”

Jakar watched Sift silently, as he mulled it over and even kind of fidgeting with Jakar's fingers and running his thumb over Jakar's scars.

“Am I loved?” Sift lifted his head. “By you?”

“Uh,” heat jumped up from his heart straight to his head, making him an instant giggly mess, “Uhm, y, I mean, why not? You're really, y'know, so sweet?? Ah, er, I didn't mean to make that sound weird I know you're sweet and caring and probably try your best to take care of your brother and I thought you were rather brave for stopping Rhys I mean I certainly didn't have the guts that guy is so disturbing so I really admire you like you're not even a trained gladiator but-”

Jakar heard the heavy tap of Sift's mask on the ground, but the gentle soft lips pressing against his own stole all of his attention and more. He held Sift close in his arms and followed Sift's rhythm, though it was too clumsy and nervous to be called a rhythm. Jakar would say it was possibly the worst kiss he's had, but his heart was positively  _ soaring _ . Sift was warm, affectionate and honest. Just being this close to someone so lovely made him giddy.

Jakar’s senses were enthralled. Sift had a sweet, wood-like scent that he couldn't possibly place and his lashes were so long they incessantly tickled Jakar’s cheeks. He was absolutely drunk off the sensation.

Sift pulled away and Jakar's soul lamented despite Sift being so bad at kissing. He was in a sort of drunken daze, but finally being met with Sift's unhindered gaze brought him back right quick.

Jakar's breath was caught in his throat. Sift had big, almond shaped eyes, veiled with long lashes. Just like Atlas, his eyes were beyond dark, and lights twinkled in them like little stars. His face was a little rounder than Atlas's, but they also shared the same cheek bones and noses. Jakar had unknowingly pulled away the fabric wrapped around Sift's head, revealing short, wispy black hair, adorably wild.

Atlas had a long scar that touched from his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose to his right cheek. On his left cheek were two scars running down to his jaw. Sift, however, had a short scar cutting through his right brow, a scar passing through his lips down his chin and a multitude of scars framing the area around his cheeks. They appeared rather like whiskers; Jakar imagined Sift tried his best to cover his face from a thin whip.

Jakar caressed the whisker-like scars and placed a kiss to Sift's brow and to his chin, where a scar ended. Sift exhaled, his shoulders loosening.

“Did you think I wouldn't find you attractive?” Jakar nuzzled his head against Sift's. Sift remained silent, fiddling with a length of Jakar's sash agitatedly. “Well I do. I mean, I was already, immensely so. If kissing you didn't seal my heart away for you, then,” Jakar lifted Sift's head, and Sift looked upon him with his big, earnest, sparkling gaze, “These eyes most certainly did.”

Sift breathed in deeply and buried his face in Jakar's neck, hugging him tightly. “Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay?” Jakar chuckled, smoothing down Sift's wild hair in vain.

“I've decided I'm going to love you all my life too.”

It wasn't even a confession, it was a goddamn declaration!! Jakar's entire body flushed, all of it, tip of his toes to his scalp, working his heart to the bone. Oh, he is well beyond doomed!

Jakar did not say a single word; he knew his tongue was so twisted up he won't be able to speak coherently for days. Instead, he hugged Sift for all he's worth, and though Sift might've wheezed briefly, he didn't complain at all.

 

○°☆°○

 

Empty. And content. That's how Atlas felt for some time in his slumber, and the time he laid in the infirmary bed awake. The sun had nearly gone down, there were trace amounts of dark red and orange light in the horizon. 

He didn't want to leave. The stillness in him was the kind of calm he used to have before Milo arrived and upended everything. Atlas didn't have to think about anyone or feel for anyone. No intrusive thoughts whatsoever. 

Atlas couldn't go back to sleep, unfortunately. He had too much energy, and to add to that, he was hungry and covered in dry sweat. By time the full might of the stars lit up the night sky, Atlas finally sat up and stepped out of bed.

He found Sift standing right in the doorway, hands clasped in front of him.

“Sift,” Atlas spoke.

Sift did not move. “It may be best for you to stay here for tonight. If you are hungry, I can make you something.”

“Later. I want to shower.” Atlas tried slipping past Sift, but the servant stepped in his way.

“You can't,” Sift blurted.

The cold, content stillness in Atlas seemed to deteriorate as a weight dropped into his stomach. “ _ Why _ ?” Atlas hissed.

Sift exhaled stiffly. “I… I'm…”

“Where's Milo?” Atlas asked abruptly, almost as abruptly as the question had surfaced in the pit of his soul, “Is he still here?”

Sift lowered his head, “Yes…”

“But.” Atlas whispered and shoved past Sift, rushing out of the infirmary and down the hall. 

“Atlas!” Sift called after him. When he dared tug on Atlas's sleeve, Atlas slapped his hand away and continued, taking a sharp right past the cafeteria. 

He passed by a few courtyard windows until stopping dead in his tracks. Through a window, peering out into the star-lit courtyard, all of Atlas's calm drained away, all of the cold emptiness he regained flared with renewed heat.

Master Rhys had left Milo in a bloody display. His arms were stretched apart, each attached to a taut chain. Milo's body drooped in between, head bowed so much that Atlas could see some of the damage done to his back. He didn't need to see the entirety of the inflicted wounds, the blood staining the ground was telling enough.

At the entrance of the courtyard, one of Master Rhys's personal servants spoke up, “He's alive. Barely.”

The humor laced around that last word was a mistake.

“The bitch should have gotten it over with and begged-HRK!”

Atlas’s fingers dug into the servant’s throat, drawing out ugly choking. An eerie red light gleamed in his otherwise pitch black gaze. Atlas’s face was contorted in rage, and he watched the servant crumble to their knees, clawing at his hand desperately. Their chokes lessened by the second, and Atlas felt their pulse gradually come to a stop. The servant fell limply to the ground.

Atlas tore away their mask and sent bolts of red light straight back into their heart. The servant’s eyes flew open and they gasped, coughing and choking for air. They would not get to catch their breath. Atlas drove his fist into their face over and over again until his fist came back dripping with their blood. Each pleading word they tried to get past their cut, swollen lips received a strike. Each lively, terrified gleam in their eyes, each breath they took, Atlas couldn't stomach.

“BARELY!” Atlas cried at their bloody face, pinning their jaw shut and forcing them to swallow their own blood and broken teeth. They couldn't breathe through their horrendously fractured nose. “Barely,” Atlas’s voice withered behind his gritted teeth. The red light in his eyes faded, as if washed away by the blobs of tears that rose up and dribbled down his face, distorting his vision.

“Atlas,” Sift spoke up, grabbing Atlas’s shoulders and pulling him away from the servant, and into Sift’s arms. 

He clawed at Sift’s robe, a shuddering hiss leaving him. “Nothing,” Atlas choked out, “Nothing is ever enough. I’ve given him glory, my body, my  _ dignity _ ,” he shook in rage, his voice weak and pathetic. A sob escaped him, “Can I have nothing for myself? Look what I've done, he didn't deserve this.”

Sift hugged Atlas more tightly, smoothing down his hair, “Master Rhys did this,” Sift's voice was quiet and gentle, shaking. “And I did too. Every time I involve him, he hurts you.” Sift sat back, holding Atlas's face in his hands and wiping away his tears. Then, Sift's shaking hands pulled away his hood, the fabric wrapped around his head and the mask hiding his face.

Atlas blinked away more tears, frowning at the person before him. “Sift?”

The servant wiped tears away from his big, black eyes, and he exhaled shakily. “No more. I can't stand by and let Master Rhys hurt,” Sift swallowed hard, “Hurt my big brother.”

Brother.

“I don't understand,” Atlas shook his head head. “I'm the last Anatori.”

He said that, despite seeing how much Sift resembled him. From their skin tone to hair, to pitch black eyes. Maybe the shape of their faces.

“My father,” Sift exhaled slowly, “Served our mother as a guard. I know we share a mother because, because Master Rhys made sure I never forgot how I killed her.” Sift smiled, his eyes brimming with tears. “You can hate me too. All I have to give you, to make up for all my mistakes, is a promise. I will never tell Rhys about your behavior. If you want to be with Milo, I can steer servants the other way. And,” Sift reached into his robe and lifted a gold necklace. Attached to it was a small round mirror, though its surface appeared crystalline, and the geometric shapes and colors shifted endlessly. 

“I can report everything Rhys does to you and Milo to the king. He commanded me to do so. I think Milo is important to His Majesty, but I'm not sure why.”

Atlas's gaze met with Sift's sharply. “ _ Why _ ? Why do you care?” He grabbed Sift's robe and yanked him forward, hissing, “You don't know me. Are you trying to make me feel content? To help Master Rhys find a reason to take Milo away!?”

“No!”

“Then why!?” Atlas's voice cracked, “Why must you try to enable me? I couldn't stay away, and now he's,” nothing more could make it past his throat. He wanted to vomit at the pathetic tears rolling down his face once again.

Nothing, not even this “Anathema” could cure him. In fact, it made everything worse.

Sift's lips pressed together tightly and he shed tears as he blinked. “I've known you all my life,” Sift spoke shakily, “I love you so much, Atlas. You're the only reason I'm sane. All I have ever wanted was to see you happy. I hope you can believe me, but I won't blame you if you don't.”

Atlas eyed Sift and slowly looked to Milo’s pale and bloodied form in the courtyard. He let go of Sift’s robe, “Turn your gaze and make your report.”

Sift cast his eyes downward and nodded.

Atlas stood and turned, though hesitated. He looked to Sift once more, “Do you… have another name?”

The servant, or rather, his brother sniffed and lifted his head, giving a small smile, “No. You gave me my first real name.”

He had more questions than ever for Sift, all bubbling up inside of him, adding fuel to the jumbled mess of his soul.  _ Later _ , Atlas told himself. He couldn’t handle any more new information at the moment. What mattered most was Milo.

Atlas entered the courtyard and slowly approached the pale, bloody figure. His body never felt heavier than it did right then and there, seeing Milo’s chest rise and fall faintly. Atlas couldn’t breathe, try as he did.

He removed his collar and sent a bolt of energy through his arm. Blood red light oozed from his palm, gradually solidifying into a fair sized dagger. Atlas swept the blade through both of the chains holding Milo’s wrists with two red flashes of light, and immediately dropped to his knees, grabbing Milo’s arm and letting him fall against Atlas.

Though Atlas tried his best to minimize movement, just the barest shift of Milo’s back was enough to draw out a cry through gritted teeth. Milo shuddered and Atlas felt his tears drip onto his chest.

“Atlas?”

Milo's voice was so small and hoarse.

“Mn,” Atlas replied. He couldn't trust his voice, not with all the emotions piling into his throat.

Atlas unclipped Milo's largest collar and set it aside. Milo inhaled sharply and his body instantly warmed as energy flowed freely, and in abundance. Soft green light especially traveled to Milo's back, just as Atlas hoped it would. The deep cuts began to glitter with green flecks of energy and these flecks broke apart into tiny bits of dust, gradually floating upward.

The damage done was egregious, and left alone for too long. Milo will end up with scars. Everyone had scars, but those scars were earned in the arena; Milo's scars would not be trophies, but marks he didn't deserve, a reminder of unjust punishment.

Atlas should have never fallen asleep. He could have done something, anything, to keep this from happening. He would rather be the one whipped unconscious. He would have pulled Rhys into bed himself if it meant Milo didn't have to endure this.

At least the more shallow cuts and other wounds were healing quickly. However, as some healed, the tattoo upon Milo's back didn't recover very well. Half of the strange shapes and creatures were faded or disrupted in a way.

Atlas circled his thumb over one of the images and murmured, “What is this shape?”

“A flower, a plant,” Milo replied quietly. His arms had loosely hooked around Atlas's waist, though he bet Milo had no strength in them.

Atlas scoffed, but he pressed his lips to a flower on Milo's shoulder, “Why a tattoo of a plant?”

Milo chortled, very weakly. “I'll show you one day, okay? Then you'll want one too.”

Atlas closed his eyes and shook his head subtly. He breathed in shakily and slowly leaned back until he laid on the ground, Milo resting on top of him. Atlas lightly stroked his fingers through Milo's hair, feeling him breathe softly against his body.

His mind ran back to Thane and Lory. They often laid together in bed, doing nothing. Atlas never understood their behavior. They didn't even sleep, and often didn't talk.

_ Why? _ Atlas used to wonder from time to time.

Now he had some guesses: to feel the warmth of the other? To listen to them breathe peacefully? To somehow take joy in being pressed down by their weight? 

That's at least what Atlas experienced as he held Milo. This was a weight he would gladly hold every day, if he could.

“Milo,” Atlas muttered, “This must end.”

Milo didn't hear. He slept, hopefully painlessly. His deepest wounds, the ones most likely to scar, were at the very least somewhat closed and much fewer than Atlas expected. With his wounds repaired to this stage, Atlas snapped Milo's collar back in place.

Sift came along prepared, back to wearing his mask. He had a fresh robe for Milo and a simple gurney from the infirmary. Atlas took the utmost care in dressing Milo and, with Sift's help, placing him on the gurney, face down.

They carried him to the sleeping room silently, though Atlas already knew plenty gladiators were awake. How could they sleep with the noise Atlas caused earlier, especially with their appetite for any amount of excitement? He was just surprised they never spoke up, or got out of bed. Well, perhaps some already had.

Sift tucked Milo in bed under a blanket, though not before unlocking the iron cuffs around his wrists. Apparently Sift had found the key on the vile servant, who still laid unconscious in the hallway.

Once all was settled, Atlas left the room, but he didn't know where he wanted to go. His feet were aimless and couldn't take him far without stopping. All he could really do was stare out into the courtyard, at the blood staining the stone. 

Sift eventually came up beside him and grasped his hand. “Come. I'll make you something to eat.”

Atlas didn't know if he could eat at all, but allowed Sift to tug him to the kitchen, beyond the sandstone wall in the cafeteria. This kitchen wasn't extraordinary, though it was plenty spacious. It had four stove ovens, two on each side of the square space, across from each other, with a long countertop and cabinets lining the wall between. At the center of the room was a large wooden table, and above it hung all sorts of pans and cooking utensils.

The fourth wall was dedicated two a large double-leaved door, belonging to none other than the pantry. It was quite the treasure trove of fruits, vegetables, stored meats and such.

Sift removed his mask and all the fabric wrapped around his head, and even disrobed. Underneath, Sift wore a close fitting, sleeveless black shirt with a tall collar hugging his neck, and black, large bell bottom pants ending above his ankles. Atlas knew Sift was small, but he's never seen a man with such, well, stick-like arms?

Though that wasn't what caught Atlas's full attention. No, it was the sheer amount of scars on said frail arms and shoulders, as well as a few small, round burn scars.

“So, is there anything you want to eat?” Sift asked as soon as he finished folding his robes neatly on a stool.

Atlas shook his head, continuing to eye Sift's scars. He silently took a seat at the large wooden table.

Sift's big, shiny eyes shifted away and he wrung his hands together. “Alright. Maybe some tea and a sandwich?”

“Did Rhys do that to you?” Atlas abruptly countered.

Behind a mask, this brother of his was hiding expressive eyes. He could never hope to tell a lie without his mask if his life depended on it.

Sift chose not to respond and went straight to the pantry, disappearing into the dimly lit room. Atlas had his answer.

“Why?” Atlas called.

The sound of rustling paused, then continued briefly until Sift came back out carrying a myriad of things. A stick of salami, a loaf of bread, tomato, a head of lettuce and a block of cheese. It was a wonder how Sift's stick arms could balance everything. 

Atlas glared, “Why?”

Sift looked at him wearily and a bit helplessly, “I don't,” he breathed in quickly and exhaled, “I don't want to say it again.”

Atlas didn't inquire any further. He simply watched Sift curiously, continuing to eye parts of him that were familiar. Sift's boyish face and short hair reminded Atlas of himself when he was around thirteen, before he started letting his hair grow out.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty, I think?”

He frowned, “You think?”

Sift sighed and reached up, plucking a knife hung up on the rack above their heads. “The servant who raised me until I was nine kept track of my birthday. They were gone one day, and my birthdays weren't celebrated anymore. So, I lost track. But I'm sure I'm twenty. Although ... I could have missed a year,” Sift mumbled as he cut slices of cheese.

Atlas eyed the clean way Sift handled the knife. He couldn't quite describe it, though he could say the knife never once staggered and cut with precision.

“Why weren't you raised with me? And put in the barracks?”

His brother gave a small smile. “Have you seen me? I was such a tiny thing, Rhys didn't bother.”

“But someone did.”

Sift's knife paused, then delved into the stick of salami. “Eventually.”

Atlas wasn't imagining it then. Sift didn't need muscle to, perhaps, wield daggers. 

“Tell me who. And for what purpose,” said Atlas. He paused, then his eyes lit up, “What weapons do you specialize in?”

Sift pursed his lips, but his eyes shined and wrinkled at Atlas in a warm, humored way. He reached behind himself and set a pair of blades down in front of Atlas.  _ Immediately _ , Atlas picked one up.

The blade itself was pitch black and very thin, no longer than his forearm. It's over all design was a bit strange, however. The handle was similar to that of a brass knuckle and the blade was crafted into a long teardrop shape.

“You really love weapons.”

Atlas started, on the inside, wondering for a second if he'd been smiling, but he wasn't. He looked to Sift, who held a smile. Atlas set down the blade next to it's twin. “Of course.”

Sift retrieved the blades and hid them back under his shirt. They were so thin, Atlas didn't notice right away, but there must be a sheath strapped to Sift's back under his shirt. An upside down one?

“My teacher was an odd woman. I never knew her name. Master Rhys sent for her to see if I had any use. And I did.”

Atlas raised a brow.

His brother tore away a few leaves from the head of cabbage. “I was sent to get rid of a few people, traitors, in His Majesty's Court. Not all at once, I had to weed them out.”

“So… you've been outside of the colosseum?” Atlas asked tentatively.

“Mhm.”

“What is out there? Have you ever seen a flower?”

Sift frowned as he assembled two sandwiches. “There's a humongous city not too far from here. It's not… nice. There's a lot of crime and homelessness. The barracks is more amicable than out there. As for flowers, the palace was filled with them. All their petals were huge and an intense blue. I think you would have loved them.”

Well, Atlas's favorite color was blue. Master Rhys allowed him to choose it for his “team's” sashes. So it stands to reason that he might like the flowers, but he's never liked plants that much. Let alone enough to get a tattoo of a plant.

His brother placed a sandwich in front of him, “Atlas?”

“Hm?” 

“Do you approve of Jakar?”

He furrowed his brows at Sift, whose gaze was a bit timid. “What do you mean?”

Sift fidgeted with his fingers, “I'm not too sure. I once heard you're supposed to have your eldest family member approve of your lover. Else it's bad luck?”

Atlas did  _ not _ understand. “Jakar is your lover? When did this happen?”

Sift's mouth fell open and though his skin was too dark to see any pink color rise to his cheeks, Atlas was certain his skin at least darkened. “Not, not exactly,” Sift stammered, “It wasn't said out loud, but we kissed and he seemed really happy. But, do you like him?”

Atlas squinted in confusion. “Why would you want me to like him if you like him?”

“No, that's not what I meant! It's more like your opinion?”

He sighed irritatedly. “I have no opinion.”

Sift sat down silently, his eyes downcast, shoulders drooping.

The atmosphere felt awkward. Atlas could have done without knowing Sift was his little brother; never has he dealt with or even thought about family. There was no such thing in the colosseum, how could he ever navigate something like this? First the infliction of the love bug, second a barrage of invaders at his table, and now a mopey brother.

Atlas just wanted to go back in time and stop himself from ever speaking to Milo. 

“Why does my approval matter?” Atlas muttered.

Sift sighed through his nose, “I don't know. I just hear things from other servants. About their families. I've always wanted to be closer to you, to experience family things, and this “blessing” or “approval” thing seemed important. I heard a servant say, “If the people who matter most to you give their blessing, then the family grows stronger.””

Alas, this brother of his was sincere. Too sincere. What made Sift believe Atlas could be a real brother, not simply one by blood? Atlas didn't know how to feel about Sift or this concept of family. He could hardly understand his affections towards Milo.

Atlas glared down at his sandwich, though not specifically at it. He exhaled slowly and spoke up, “Jakar is…nice, and respectful. He isn't gross. If you like each other, I don't have a problem with it.”

Sift lifted his head, eyes wide and twinkling brightly. Atlas wished he wouldn't have looked at him like that. Such innocence still thrives in this place?

“Just know,” Atlas began, his eyes lowering, “Anything held dear in the colosseum can be taken away at any moment.”


	8. Vierce Part 1 & 2

His first kill. Atlas stared wide eyed into the bright, pained amber gaze of a man with a gentle oval face. At the end of his dagger, he’d felt the blade slice through the man’s skin, through muscle and fat, scraping against a rib and piercing his heart. Atlas knew exactly where he was aiming, the action was simple enough. He thought he knew what to expect from his first tournament.  
But the feeling. The blood gushing onto his hand. The look of utter pain and, disturbingly, sadness on the nameless man’s face as he gazed down upon Atlas.  
Why isn’t this man looking at him with hate? Anger?  
Atlas’s breath left him erratically as he struggled to force air down his throat. The man’s amber eyes were flooded with tears and Atlas watched in horror as the light in them faded away. The very color seemed to dull. He saw every thought and emotion drain from the man, making him nothing but a bleeding organ sack.  
Atlas let him collapse to the floor of the arena and peered down at his right hand, painted in blood and shaking as badly as the rest of his body, mind and soul.  
After that, it seemed that any qualms a gladiator had in fighting a thirteen year old was thrown out the window. Atlas was attacked left and right, and like a wild, caged animal, he cut them down with any weapons he found in the bodies decorating the arena, struck them with all the energy he had.  
He couldn’t breathe. There was no end to the new ways a body could horrify him. Atlas dragged a mace through a man’s face and his eye was torn from its socket. He sliced open a torso and intestines spilled out, writhing uncontrollably like desert snakes with their heads cut off.  
A man lunged forward with a long sword and Atlas only remembered grabbing the blade and sending orange bolts of energy through, burning the gladiator’s hand.  
His entire vision filled with red. Any gladiator that drew near him met their end violently. If Atlas couldn’t find a weapon he panicked beyond his mental capacity, blanking out until the gladiator was dead, either brutally stabbed by blades of raw energy or having their heads smashed into the ground.  
There was no differentiation between any body Atlas encountered. He didn’t know friend from foe; why would he, when Master Rhys ensured he was trained far away from others, living in the colosseum but not in the barracks yet. Thrown into his first blood bath, the fourth and final round in the tournaments, surrounded by strangers.  
It was almost as if Master Rhys wanted Atlas to be the last one standing.  
This was his debut.  
Atlas could no longer keep the blade in his hands steady. He stabbed the body below him in a crazed frenzy. One more, one more, his soul cried in an endless loop. How many more until the end?  
Shivering breaths left Atlas, clinging to a sword plunged into a body. He waited and waited, but not a single gladiator approached. Nearly all was quiet.  
Atlas stumbled to his feet, gripping his sword for dear life. Only vaguely did Atlas remember the simple gesture Master Rhys wanted from him, after all was said and done. With a shaking limb and a false show of strength, Atlas raised his sword and gave out a loud roar filled with every indiscernible emotion that had boiled in his stomach.  
It was as if the crowds were waiting for this gesture, and they erupted into the loudest wave of cheers and whoops and clapping. The sheer force of their cries nearly knocked Atlas off his feet.  
He dropped his arm and couldn’t hold back a sob. Atlas stumbled over the bodies littering the arena floor, finally noticing the pain in his abdomen now that his crazed adrenaline high disappeared.  
Though his gaze was distorted by blobs of tears, Atlas still found his first kill in the sea of bodies. Even in death, the man clutched his sword tightly.  
This sword was a magnificent show of craftsmanship. The blade was perfectly sharp and gleamed in the hot afternoon sun. The silver hilt of the sword had beautiful curving designs carved out and replaced by a blue, gem-like material.  
Atlas bent down and pried the blade from the man's cold, locked fingers. Master Rhys told him to claim the weapons of his opponents as trophies, as a reward for bringing glory to the colosseum and K'reche. However, when Atlas claimed this beautiful weapon, his body felt heavier and his hands and legs trembled more than ever before.  
Was glory meant to be this heavy?  
He managed to trudge and stumble back into the armory, the place where he once stood squished in a crowd of gladiators. Now it was empty, save for the weapons mounted on the walls, a handful of servants, and Master Rhys, who grinned so broadly, who looked upon him with one shining eye full of pride.  
Atlas saw Master Rhys's open arms and he choked on a sob, gladly collapsing into his master's embrace, clinging to him with the last of his strength.  
“You have done so well, my champion,” Master Rhys praised, “What you are feeling is the glory you've garnered, the pleasure of striking down your enemy. Remember this day well. Can you hear the crowds chanting your name?”  
At first he didn't, but now he vaguely heard his name in the sea of cheerful, riveted voices. His stomach soured and his knees abruptly gave way, dropping him to the stone floor. Atlas pressed his hand to his abdomen, and warm, fresh blood spilled between his fingers.  
Master Rhys merely smiled, giving a light laugh before kissing Atlas's head. “Rest now, dear champion.”  
It was as if Atlas's body was waiting for those exact words, immediately allowing for all the weight of the sky, the earth and the blood to knock him down and press him into the stone floor. All of the air was squeezed out of him and his eyes rolled up into his head.  
The dying amber eyes of his first kill haunted his dreams.

○°☆°○

Atlas woke with a scream leaving his throat and hot tears dripping down the sides of his face. He gasped, trying to breathe through a sob. The sun had nearly set, dimming the infirmary. He saw quiet sigils of light breathing softly above him, drawn on the ceiling. These calm lights contrasted with the occasional wails and shouts and chatter of … kids? Kids his age?  
New gladiators?  
The gladiators in the barracks were more often than not eighteen and older. Atlas certainly didn’t know of any other thirteen year olds. But now he’s hearing adolescent voices and even crying.  
He blinked tears from his eyes and tried to breathe in deeply, however his breath hitched as his right hand was abruptly grasped. Atlas jerked his head upwards, but the slightest movement of his abdomen struck pain through him.  
“Careful, friend. What were you screaming about?” a strong voice arose.  
Atlas blinked hard to clear his vision and glared at the figure beside him. It was a girl, her skin was so strikingly dark, he thought her skin was absorbing the little light that was in the infirmary. Her black eyes glittered and he noticed the mass of darkness that was her hair. Beautiful thick curls that fell well past her waist.  
“Friend?” Atlas murmured, his voice a little hoarse.  
“Sure,” the girl smiled. “You must’ve been having a real bad nightmare. So, what did they do to you?” She lightly poked his bandaged abdomen.  
“Who are you?” Atlas hissed, trying to pull his hand out of the girl’s grasp.  
She laughed, “You’re about as friendly as a stray kitten.” She patted his hand and gave it a tender squeeze, smiling gently. “I’m Vierce. You?”  
“Let go of me.”  
“But you’ve stopped trembling,” said Vierce. “Are you sure?”  
Atlas nodded.  
Vierce let go of his hand and knelt beside his bed, folding her arms on the edge and resting the side of her head on them. “So, can I know your name, friend?”  
“I am not your friend,” Atlas growled.  
“Well, that’s what I’m gonna call you until I know your name, friend.”  
He closed his eyes tiredly. “It’s Atlas.”  
“That’s a pretty name,” Vierce complimented. “It really suits you. Say, you’re going to have a wicked scar across your face.”  
Atlas flinched as Vierce traced a finger from the top of his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, and to his right cheek. She traced beneath the tender wound carefully. He hadn’t realized the wound was there; everything everywhere hurt in general.  
“Oh,” Atlas mumbled.  
“You’re kind of small … you weren’t in the arena, were you?” Vierce asked.  
Atlas’s face flushed with heat and he shouted. “I’m not small! I have brought glory to my name and the colosseum! I was the last one standing!”  
Vierce sighed through her nose. “Okay. You’re a small champion then. Hey, does glory usually make you scream in your sleep?”  
Atlas stared hard at the ceiling, trying to avoid Veirce's prying gaze, as well as push away the dying amber eyes of his first kill. This is glory, he told himself. He is breathing while that amber eyed man was not; Atlas was strong, the other was weak. All of them are weak because Atlas is the epitome of strength and power.  
“Think only of them as worms beneath your feet,” Master Rhys once told him, long before Atlas was put into his first tournament.  
Undoubtedly, Atlas knew he should look back, look at the events of the arena and take away information, learn from any mistakes. He knew letting his mind be run by adrenaline and fear was a mistake, but that was all Atlas's mind was willing to let him think back on.  
Try as he might, pushing to look into the past brought forth a wave of anxiety. He wanted nothing more than to seek out Master Rhys, to have him explain what he was feeling and why.  
Why did glory feel so heavy?  
Why couldn't he breathe without trembling?  
Atlas felt a warm hand press against his cheek and smooth down his wild, wispy hair. He opened his eyes and looked to Vierce, whose dark gaze no longer glittered.  
“It's okay to cry.”  
A pent up breath escaped him, and it quivered. “No it's not,” Atlas hissed quietly.  
“With me it is,” Vierce spoke confidently, and oddly with a hint of mischievousness, as if his tears were to be little secrets.  
He pressed his lips together tightly and his eyes welled up without the slightest permission. Vierce held onto his hand once more, and her eyes began to shine again, although not because she was smiling, but because she was crying too.  
She rested her head against his arm. “It's okay to cry,” Vierce spoke unsteadily, “That's what my brother said.”  
Atlas sniffled quietly, listening to Vierce weep, feeling her hand tighten around his own. His eyes were glued to her hair for some time, all the while Vierce stroked his hair, effectively stealing away his anxiety. This was something only Master Rhys did to him until now, the action should feel the same but it didn’t. This felt gentler, more warm, whilst Master Rhys often gave Atlas anxiety that he couldn’t explain.  
Hesitantly, Atlas raised his free hand and carefully rolled a bit onto his side, hand hovering for a good moment above Vierce’s head before lightly patting her hair, then trying to smooth down a particularly unruly curl that stood up in an arch. No luck, it wouldn’t stay put.  
He didn’t quite remember when next he fell asleep. It didn’t really matter; Atlas awoke in the very early morning, a sob stuck in his throat with his head tucked under Vierce’s chin. His entire being trembled and Vierce hugged him more securely in her sleep. Atlas, no matter how much his wound hurt, wriggled out of Vierce’s hold and stumbled out of bed.  
Bent over and holding his side, Atlas left the infirmary and silently walked around the barracks. He hasn’t lived in the barracks until now; he lived in a room not far from Master Rhys’s and had a strict, monotonous schedule. He wasn’t allowed to explore the colosseum without Master Rhys, and certain areas were forbidden. He also wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone but Master Rhys and his private trainers.  
What are his rules now, now that he will be living in the barracks, surrounded by other kids his own age? Will Master Rhys be mad if he finds out he was talking to Vierce?  
Atlas found the toilet stalls near the showers and after doing his business there, he washed up in the showers, very careful not to get his bandages wet. He assumed the servants, maybe after they stitched him up, cleaned him of most of the blood and grime, but didn’t get all of it. The wound across his face did not like the soap and water getting into it, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the shower.  
After he cleaned up as best he could, he settled in the middle of the courtyard to look up at the stars. There was nothing else to keep his mind occupied. He was afraid to close his eyes, or think about anything at all, because his thoughts would dig up the events of the tournament.  
Sitting there, under the sheer expanse of the heavens, Atlas felt … small. He could cry out every emotion he didn’t understand and the stars wouldn’t be shaken. The stars might not even hear.  
“You okay?”  
Atlas jumped and peered over his shoulder. Vierce walked gingerly down the steps into the courtyard, and approached slowly. She looked to be trying her best to keep balanced until she was able to heavily sit down beside Atlas.  
He eyed her. The blue light of the early morning was giving way for orange and pink light, and the colors gleamed off her prominent cheekbones. She smiled at him, and her cheeks cheerfully lifted and wrinkled her dark eyes.  
“Your hair is really pretty. You should grow it out long, like mine.”  
Atlas unconsciously tugged at a short, drying tuft of his hair. How could his hair be pretty? “Will it look like yours once it’s long?” Atlas asked.  
Vierce chortled and shook her head. “No, of course not.”  
“Then it won’t be pretty,” Atlas muttered. Won’t long hair be a hindrance in the arena anyway?  
“Of course it will be pretty, Atlas,” Vierce laughed, lightly nudging him with her shoulder. “It’ll be long and silky. Then you can braid it, curl it, put in hair ornaments. All sorts of fun things.” She sighed towards the stars then, “My brother always fussed when I asked him to braid my hair.”  
Atlas frowned. “Brother?”  
“Mhm,” she nodded, then smirked at him, “His name is Nikalo. He’s a prince and I’m a princess!”  
He blinked at Vierce silently as she continued to smirk at him, her head held high. Well, until she received no response. She exhaled and her proper posture wilted. “Usually people “Ooo!” and “Awe!” at royalty.”  
Atlas raised a brow at her. “I am from royal blood as well. It isn’t special.”  
Vierce looked at him wide eyed. “Not special? We descend from the incarnations of the gods. What family do you come from?”  
“Anatori and Lu’Cili.”  
She stared at Atlas for quite some time then, and he could see the cogs stirring behind her intense gaze. She finally blinked, and her mouth fell open. “NO WAY! You’re lying right? That, that would make you the crown prince to the Anatori and Lu’Cili thrones. Not to mention,” she gasped and broke into a broad grin, “You can get us out of here!”  
Atlas’s soul jolted inside of him. “What?” he hissed beneath his breath.  
Vierce drew closer, her eyes lit up. “You’re all-powerful, aren’t you? You can break your collar and we can help everyone escape.”  
He pushed at Vierce then, leaping to his feet. His wound sent a bolt of pain through him. Atlas growled at Vierce, “I don’t want to escape. This is my home.”  
Vierce’s cheer drained away. “But … no it isn’t? They forced you to kill people. They killed your family, all of them. You might be the only one left of Lu’Cili, maybe even Anatori too. How can you call this place your home?”  
Atlas breathed out shakily. “I have no family. I wasn’t forced to do anything. I was born to bring glory to the colosseum and K’reche. I don’t care what happened to Lu’Cili or Anatori. They were all weak and pathetic, and all who go against K’reche are enemies.” Atlas glared at Vierce nastily, “If you dare speak of escaping again, I will tell Master Rhys, and he will punish you.”  
With that, Atlas left Vierce to herself, or at least tried to.  
He heard her yelp, and he turned to find her face down on the ground. She tried to get up, but her arms could only just barely bear her weight. Vierce flopped onto her side, shivering.  
Atlas ran over and knelt beside her. “What’s wrong?”  
Vierce curled up into herself and she cried quietly, “I think I broke my Core.”  
“Your what?”  
“You know!” Vierce gritted her teeth. “That thing, where our energy comes from. I tried fighting back when they put the collar on, but then something bad happened, inside. It hurts,” she sobbed, grabbing onto Atlas’s robe.  
He didn’t know a single thing about a Core. What is it? Like a light bulb?  
“Do you know how to fix it?” Atlas asked.  
Vierce shook her head.  
She needs a servant then. Maybe they know how to fix the Core thing. But are any servants awake yet? Well, he can get a hold of a guard and they can go get a servant.  
Atlas pulled his robe out of Vierce’s grasp and shimmied his arms underneath her shoulders and knees. He bit back a cry as he hefted Vierce up from the ground; in that moment, he was sure a stitch tore through his wound. Holding back tears, Atlas trudged out of the courtyard and down the two hallways to the infirmary.  
Vierce was rather heavy, and he concluded she must be taller than him too, which put a sour feeling in his already aching stomach. Once Atlas settled her down, he checked two things: Vierce’s temperature, and his bandages. One, Vierce had become hot to the touch, and two, he was bleeding through his bandages.  
Fine.  
Atlas found some rags and wet a few with cold water (well, the barracks only had one temperature for water, which was freezing). Gently, he moved all the wild curls from around Vierce’s face and laid a rag across her head and two on her cheeks. That should help, right? Should he add another rage over her entire face? Maybe wet her hair too?  
He wasn’t sure at all. Atlas has never been sick himself and only heard about fevers and colds from servants speaking to one another.  
Deciding to leave well enough alone, Atlas went to the guards down the hallway and around the corner. Though the guard he spoke to sounded irritated, they changed their tune once they heard that Atlas’s wound had reopened. Vierce should have been shown more concern, but at least Atlas prompted the guard to retrieve a servant.  
Annoyingly, once a servant did arrive, all they wanted to do first was stitch Atlas back up!  
“Stop! My friend is sick!” Atlas spoke harshly, refusing to let the servant even touch his bandages.  
The servant was equally agitated, if not also nervous. “Very well,” they relented.  
Atlas stood at Vierce’s bedside and watched the servant examine her with a hawk-like gaze. The servant took her temperature, and when Atlas mentioned her broken Core, the servant used some sort of device that could apparently allow the servant to listen to Vierce’s Core.  
He didn’t at all like the servant’s silence, but didn’t question them, that is, until they pulled out a syringe and pointed it at Vierce’s torso. Atlas shot his hand forward and grabbed the servant’s wrist, making them jump.  
“What are you doing to her?” Atlas hissed.  
“I need to take a sample of her Ether,” the servant spoke carefully, “It could be that her Core is infected.”  
Atlas glared at the servant and released his vice-like grip.  
They hesitated now, but eventually sunk the needle into Vierce’s torso and withdrew the strangest, prettiest substance Atlas has ever seen. It almost looked like the substance Master Rhys administers to Atlas once a month. Oh, but this substance was a wondrous light purple color and it floated within the glass tube, like floaty water, glowing peacefully.  
The servant put away the sample of Ether in a larger, more secure glass tube and spoke, “I will have to take the sample to Dr. Laece for him to look at. Meanwhile, the girl will have to endure, drink water and rest. Now, may I have a look at your wound?”  
Atlas wasn’t pleased, he didn’t believe the servant cared at all for Vierce, but let them tend to him anyway. Several of his stitches had to be redone, and the servant, as they wrapped new bandages around him, told him to stay in bed and forego any strenuous activity.  
For how long? A few hours? Days?  
Staying in bed wasn’t going to happen and the servant couldn’t do a single thing about it, especially when Vierce started coughing a few hours later. Atlas wanted to be the one to get her water, though he didn’t know why.  
He didn’t understand any of his feelings or actions towards this new friend of his. Why did he even consider her a friend? She is very much the enemy for even thinking about escaping the colosseum and trying to get Atlas involved, and yet it made him feel bad to see her sick.  
Vierce eventually woke up, and right when Atlas's stomach began to growl. He saw her stir and slipped off the edge of his bed to poke her cheek. Vierce blinked up at him with hazy eyes and smirked as she breathed out a laugh through her nose.  
“You're really strong for someone so small,” Vierce spoke with a raspy voice.  
“I'm not small,” Atlas glared. “Are you hungry?”  
“Kinda.”  
He nodded and threw a servant a harsh look when they raised their hand, about to protest, but his look had them backing off quickly. This was a different servant from the first one, they had switched out long ago and he wasn't sure when news on what's happening to Vierce’s Core will come back.  
Atlas went to go get them lunch. It was much easier said than done … the cafeteria was chucked full of teenagers, and there was a fight going on in one corner, not at all helping the amount of chatter filling the room. Atlas unconsciously stuck to the doorway, peering past crowds of teenagers to the tables full of food. Never has he been near so many people before… he thought, maybe, if he could make a friend out of Vierce, maybe he could make more friends. However, seeing the abundance of new faces gave him the following opinion: impossible.  
Atlas bit his tongue and rushed into the cafeteria, effectively dodging every person and refusing to touch any of them. He grabbed a plate and shoveled loads of sandwiches onto it. Then, he ran on out, straight back to the infirmary.  
“You shouldn’t be running,” the servant nearby spoke helplessly.  
Atlas delighted in seeing Vierce sitting up in bed, albeit tiredly. He climbed up onto her bedside and presented all the sandwiches. Vierce smiled at him and picked out a sandwich with plenty of white meat and cheese.  
“Thanks, Attie.”  
He’d stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth and frowned at Vierce with puffed up cheeks. “Whodt?”  
Vierce coughed into her elbow and patted her chest, swallowing with discomfort. “It’s a nickname. You can call my Viercy, if you’d like.”  
Nickname?  
Atlas wasn’t sure how he felt about being called “Attie,” so he just ate his sandwich silently. Vierce only nibbled at hers, then spoke up, “I thought you were mad at me?”  
“Mh,” Atlas nodded and swallowed before clarifying, “Not anymore. But don’t talk about that stuff anymore.”  
“Or you’ll get me hurt?” Vierce’s voice held an edge to it. She kept her gaze glued to her sandwich.  
His mind raced to when he saw Master Rhys whipping a very small servant through a cracked door. Atlas shifted uncomfortably, “I … don’t want you to get hurt.”  
Vierce finally looked at him. Her brows were drawn downward, as if she was angry, but the rest of her face was calm. “Were you raised here? By this Master Rhys?”  
“Yes.”  
“So, he’s like your dad?”  
Atlas was uncertain why he was met with the unpleasant images of the dead body of his mother, but he pushed them away. “No. He’s my master.”  
Vierce nodded slowly, lowering her gaze. “You must trust him a lot.”  
Trust.  
“What does that word mean?” Atlas asked quietly.  
“Mmm,” Vierce hummed, “It means … you probably feel safe with him. You have a lot of confidence in him. To trust someone is to choose to be vulnerable with them, I guess. You believe nearly everything they say.”  
Some things rung a bell somewhere in Atlas. He most certainly takes everything Master Rhys has to say as law, but feeling safe … sometimes? When Atlas hugged Master Rhys after his victory, he finally felt safe. However, when his master hugs him forcefully, or strokes his hair whilst staring at him for however long… Atlas becomes anxious and his skin begins to crawl.  
“You look so much like your mother,” Master Rhys often commented.  
Atlas found that he couldn't swallow his bite of the sandwich, so he dropped it onto the plate.  
“Ew! Atlas!” Vierce scrunched up her nose and picked up the bit of chewed food and dropped it onto his lap. Immediately, he placed it on top of her head.  
“EWW!”  
His mouth quirked upwards and he broke into a laugh at Vierce's face.  
“You're a snot!” Vierce exclaimed, grabbing the somewhat slimy thing and trying to shove it back into his mouth! Atlas smacked her hand away and sent the wad flying upwards. It stuck itself right onto a stone beam for a good moment before dropping back down for vengeance. Atlas ducked and the wad splattered onto his sleeve.  
Vierce sputtered and laughed. “HA!”  
It was then that she got a face full of mustard covered cheese. She sputtered and gasped once the cheese fell away. Atlas grabbed a handful of sandwiches and fled right as Vierce roared, or rather, coughed in anger.  
At that time, the servant left the room.  
The two of them began pelting each other with grossly squished slices of cheese, bread, baloney - whatever the sandwiches had to offer. Atlas went so far as to soak his bread slices under the faucet and toss those. One smacked Vierce square on the face and she ran right up to him, fighting him for the new and gross ammo.  
They were a chorus if laughter and shrieks. Atlas had sludgey bread up his nose, in his ears, hair, clothes! Vierce was in no better condition either. They'd chased each other all over the infirmary, one sick, the other wounded, so they were rightly tired after a while.  
“Truce?” Vierce spoke wearily, but still with a belly full of laughs.  
She said truce, but they had no more ammo to continue fighting anyway, so…  
Atlas nodded, sitting on a bed and holding his wound. He breathed in, then blew air through his nose, sending out mushy bread. Vierce snorted and dropped down beside him. She coughed into her robe and asked, “Got anything on my face?”  
He laughed. Of course she did, her face was the most covered in all sorts of sandwich guts. So much so that Atlas could take a pinky and draw a squiggle onto her cheek.  
Vierce lightly whapped his hand away and he scrunched up his face as she picked shrapnel off his eyelashes. “Geez, I have to wash my hair now cuz of you. It's going to be dry and frizzy!”  
Atlas checked his bandages real quick to make sure they weren’t being bled through. He supposed his wound just hurt in general.  
“Does it hurt? Do you need more painkillers or something?” Vierce asked.  
He shook his head. Somehow, it felt good? To hurt on the outside, rather than inside; the pain helped distract him, and push away any bad feelings and memories.  
Vierce helped the most, but he wasn't sure why. He just liked her. Ehr, well, probably not when she abruptly hooked her arms around his neck and hugged him, purposefully wiping all the food on her face onto his own!  
“YOU SAID TRUCE!” Atlas yelled, trying to wiggle out of Vierce's hold as she cackled.  
“I said no such thing!”  
Atlas remembered something from when they wrestled earlier and grabbed Vierce's side, immediately eliciting a scream-laugh from her, as well as retaliation, the same attack no less, making him laugh and yelp. Why they shared the same ticklish spots was beyond him and he was sorry for giving her the idea to use it against him!  
He was very nearly in tears when a voice he knew well spoke up.  
“What, pray tell, is going on here?”  
All the giggly warmth in Atlas drained away and the big grin on his face dropped as he looked to Master Rhys, who entered the room slowly, peering around with a sneer.  
Vierce eyed Master Rhys and spoke carefully, “We were playing.”  
Playing. That's right, Atlas was actually playing, with a friend. He felt some of his cheer come back, and he hopped off the bed to meet with Master Rhys, though was careful not to touch his robes.  
“Yes, we were playing!” Atlas confirmed, his eyes brightening, “Don't worry, Master Rhys. We can clean up-”  
Abruptly, Master Rhys grabbed Atlas's jaw and pulled him forward. Master Rhys leaned down, his one grey eye gleaming sharply, his raspy voice hissing, “Playing? You are above this childishness. You are a champion of K'reche. You look abhorrent, disgraceful. Like a toddler covered in their own spittle.”  
Master Rhys pushed his jaw out of his hand and took out a silk handkerchief to clean his fingers of any food. “Cleanse yourself. And you,” Master Rhys sneered at Vierce, “Clean up this mess.”  
Atlas spoke up quickly, “Master, I should help-”  
“You should have been resting!” Master Rhys growled. “The next time you disgrace yourself like this, you will be punished. Now go.”  
He hesitated and looked to his friend, who gave him a small smile, as if to say, “It’s okay.” Atlas lowered his gaze and left the infirmary.

○°☆°○

After that little incident, Atlas felt less anxious when he avoided Vierce, and avoid he did, for three weeks in fact. In the sleeping room, he took a look at a dusty, spider-ridden niche in the wall and stuffed a mattress in it; all the beds nearby were occupied, and by time Vierce got better, she would only be able to claim a bed at the opposite end of the room. Atlas himself was healing speedily, especially after Master Rhys gave him permission to take off his collar and allowed him to meditate for a day in Master Rhys’s study.  
The cut across his face became a pale scar, he somewhat liked it. Thinking back to his first tournament and his first kill became easier, but he still woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat and blinded by tears. Sleep did not come easy, and most nights he only garnered a few hours of peace.  
With the addition of training and avoiding the abundance of other teenagers, Atlas was exhausted.  
Very quickly, Atlas learned that if he got to the cafeteria first, and claimed a table, others would generally avoid sitting with him, which he didn’t mind, at least, most of the time. Other times, if teens approached, Atlas would meet their gazes and they would falter and turn away, making Atlas wonder what they saw when they looked at him. Maybe his face was scary? Maybe they thought he was weird.  
That’s fine. Atlas generally thinks everyone is weird as well.  
So, Atlas sat alone at dinner time, picking the annoying seeds out of his watermelon with unsteady fingers. He had popped blisters on his right hand from how hard he pushed himself the past few days. The more exhausted he is, the harder he had to hold onto his sword.  
Atlas gave a jolt as his head suddenly fell forward and his eyes flew open. Didn’t he have a slice of watermelon in his hands? Where …?  
Ah. On the ground.  
He’s falling asleep while eating now. If he could deprive himself of sleep further, could he please cultivate a tolerance to human exhaustion!? Atlas would never have to sleep again. Next step, never having to eat again, and never dropping his food to the floor and “disgracing” himself.  
Atlas dropped his face in his hands and rubbed his burning, heavy eyes for a bit before picking up his fork and stabbing into the white meat on his plate. He didn’t feel like eating anymore; the thought of chewing was exhausting in itself.  
“Attie!”  
He jumped and shot his gaze upwards. Vierce had come by, all her hair was somehow forced into a big bun at the back of her head. Once more, he found himself bitter at her height.  
“What?”  
Atlas couldn’t even muster the energy to glare.  
“Come sit with me,” Vierce invited, smiling kindly.  
He didn’t understand how she could still smile at him. For the first week he spent ignoring her, she became bitter and soon found herself a handful of friends. Speaking of, Atlas leaned to the side, peering past Vierce and at the table she usually occupied. The table was chucked full of her new friends, and if their mere presence wasn’t enough to scare Atlas, it was their expectant and curious eyes that did the trick. They stared between him and Vierce, almost as if they were waiting for a fight to break out.  
Atlas grabbed his plate and mumbled a small “No” on his way out of the cafeteria. He sought some refuge in the courtyard, despite a handful of teens that ate there as well, and picked a column to lean against. Unfortunately, Vierce came along with her dinner and plopped right down in front of him.  
She opened her mouth, smiling, but Atlas blurted out stiffly, “Please stop.”  
Vierce’s smile fell away. “Why? Just because Rhys got mad?”  
Atlas didn't reply.  
Lightly, his clenched hand was grasped and Vierce peeled his fingers back, to stop him from digging his nails into his palm.  
“I'm worried about you,” Vierce spoke quietly with her brows drawn together. “I think you need to stop trying to stay awake and get some sleep.”  
Atlas swallowed with difficulty and snatched his hand away. “I can't. Go away.”  
Vierce sighed through her nose. “No, I missed you so I'm going to sit with you.”  
She missed him? How? Why?  
He huddled into himself uncomfortably. “I got you in trouble…”  
“You didn't,” Vierce grinned and ruffled his hair gently, “I had so much fun with you, so don't worry about it anymore.”  
Atlas bit his tongue and pulled at his fingers restlessly. He spoke quietly, “I don't know if Master Rhys wants me to speak to you.”  
“He never forbade it, right?”  
“No…”  
Vierce smirked and threw her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Just like that, they were friends again? Atlas didn't know how that was after having ignored Vierce for so long, but some part of him was relieved and happy. He completely forgot why he was anxious to be around her in the first place; she mostly made him feel lighter, safe even.  
He supposed that meant he trusted her. Just a bit.  
That evening he was able to stay awake through dinner by listening to Vierce talk about her new friends and her grievances with training thus far. Every day is never without a sore muscle, and Vierce finds it difficult to spar with her friends, because she doesn’t want to hurt them. But that was the point, to go all in and get hurt, then learn from the mistakes. However, Vierce had no qualms with going “ape shit” on the boys and girls who often try to bully Vierce and her friends. Atlas knew of these teenagers; they were annoying of course, but he found teenagers fight better when they break into real fights outside of the arena.  
Though he never liked it when he saw someone get into Vierce’s face and curse at her, or pull at her hair. Atlas may not like it, but at least Vierce always stands her ground and with her height and natural strength, she can pretty much subdue any bully. The only days she doesn’t win a fight, are the days she appears tired and sickly… Atlas never did find out what happened to that vial of Vierce’s energy stuff. Was an infection ever found? Why hasn’t a doctor come and look at Vierce?  
Eventually, Atlas had to succumb to sleep; he always felt a strange indignation whenever thinking about how pathetically weak his body is, and how often he must accommodate it. Why is he stuck with this flesh?  
And just like every night for the past three weeks, Atlas only managed to sleep for a few meager hours before waking up with a strangled gasp. He gritted his teeth and withheld a sob, trying to will away the accursed amber eyes of his first kill and the haunting feeling in his right hand. His nightmares have shifted and morphed from pure memory, to distorted scenes tainted by his traitorous imagination. Atlas’s hand was now the blade itself, and it would stab into the amber eyed man’s body. His intestines would wrap around Atlas’s hand and arm, blood searing hot. Every pulse and jitter of the man’s organs reached his hand, and it was trapped there, forced to feel every organ shut down one by one until the searing heat died away into a numbing cold.  
When Atlas could finally pull his arm out, he found his hand squeezing the man’s heart. It fluttered spastically, radiating fear. The amber eyed man himself only appeared sad and anguished, and for the life of him, Atlas couldn’t understand why.  
Atlas didn’t know how long he laid in bed, stiff as a board, swallowing back the stone in his throat. Eventually, with shaking legs, he left his niche in the wall and walked quietly towards the end of the sleeping room. When he neared a certain someone’s bed, he froze, then stiffly turned and walked a few steps before turning around again.  
He made it to Vierce’s bedside, but could only anxiously stand there, twisting his fingers around. What was he here for? To disrupt Vierce’s sleep? He couldn’t make a second gladiator exhausted, especially one prone to illness.  
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, in vain, Atlas turned to leave again.  
“Attie?”  
His sleeve was pulled, and Vierce propped herself up on an arm, quiet and groggy, “Are you okay?”  
Atlas let go a pent up breath. He didn’t plan on replying whatsoever, which didn’t matter much. Vierce seemed to have gleaned an answer for herself and tugged on his sleeve again.  
“Sleep with me then.”  
He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but then again, Atlas wasn’t sure about anything, so he eventually gave in to the tugging and slipped under Vierce’s blanket. His friend took hold of his hand tightly and spoke soothingly, with an overwhelming confidence, “You’re not going to have another nightmare. Not while I’m here.”  
Those words struck somewhere, struck in a warm, gentle way. Atlas couldn’t understand the feeling, and didn’t really care to. He let go of a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, locking his fingers with Vierce’s securely.  
It was as if Vierce’s words reached the heavens and stitched themselves into the stars. Atlas did not have a single nightmare, nor dream.

 

 

 

**Vierce Part 2**

 

He awoke to a chorus of humored whoops and teasing “Ooo” sounds. Atlas blinked groggily and sat up, immediately finding himself and Vierce surrounded by Vierce’s friends, a small group that always sit with Vierce at breakfast, lunch and dinner. These friends of hers were smiling goofily.

“You guys are all toasty cozy!” a boy ruffled Atlas’s hair. “Atlas, why haven’t you sit with us yet?”

Atlas touched his head, frowning, “Um…”

“He’s just shy, I mean, I was too,” said a red haired girl. 

“Hey Atlas, you’re really just a softie, aren’t you? You look cool and badass in the arena, but hiding a nice side, huh?” Another boy shoved his shoulder playfully.

_ What is going on _ ??

A second girl spoke up, nudging Vierce, “V, it’s time to wake up. Driller is going to be pissed if you’re late again.”

Vierce didn’t move, nor make a sound. Atlas immediately pulled away Vierce’s blanket and moved all her hair out of her face. Her head was scorching hot, breathing ragged, and her incredibly dark skin appeared to have paled. Atlas’s heart jumped into his throat and he checked the skin beneath her collar. 

He found her skin burned and he yelled angrily as he hefted Vierce into his arms, “You used your energy on me!”

In the past three weeks, Vierce often refused to do any activities that required her to use her energy. Now he knew why. Not only has she used her energy, she forced it past the will of the golden collar.

Atlas ran, best he could, to the infirmary with all Vierce’s friends following closely. He settled Vierce on a bed and just as a servant neared to see what the matter was, Atlas grabbed them by the front of their black robes and yanked them down to his height.

Slowly, Atlas lifted the servant’s mask and met their wide eyes with a burning glare. Atlas hissed, his voice lowering menacingly, “Get. Someone.  _ Competent _ . Do not return empty handed.”

The servant nodded spastically and Atlas released them. They shoved their mask back in place and ran out of the infirmary. Atlas turned and found Vierce’s friends staring at him with smiles. Heat ran up his neck and Atlas cleared his throat awkwardly, setting about wetting a rag under cold water to distract himself.

As Atlas laid the chilled rag over Vierce’s forehead, a friend of hers spoke up, “Thanks a lot, Atlas.”

A hand was held out in front of him, and he looked to the hand’s owner, a boy with wavy black hair and shiny brown eyes. He had a different air around him, the sort of air Vierce had. Atlas figured this boy and Vierce weren’t raised the same way as the rest of the young gladiators, including himself. Where did they come from, if not from other colosseums or training facilities?

Atlas didn’t understand why the boy had his hand held out to him, so he ignored it and silently dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“Okay, uh,” the boy dropped his hand and smiled, “I’m Percy.”

“I’m Marcilus!” another friend spoke up.

One by one, Vierce’s friends introduced themselves to Atlas, making him increasingly anxious, wondering why they were talking to him at all. Could he remember all five of their names? He can probably get by never saying any of their names …

Thankfully, they couldn’t stay long, lest they be subject to Driller’s punishments for being late to the arena. Atlas didn’t like Driller much … the way he taught the young gladiators was structured poorly, not to mention Driller himself was not exceptional in combat. Does Master Rhys  _ want _ these gladiators to fail? 

Atlas, for the first time in his life, did not go to the arena on time. He stayed put, right beside Vierce, and made sure she continued to breathe. Meanwhile, he held onto her hand, noting vaguely how her hand used to be soft, but was now becoming calloused, just like his hands. 

At last, the servant returned, and brought with themselves an old, big bellied man with drooping, uncaring eyes. Atlas hated how the old man sighed irritatedly at Vierce, then looked to Atlas with another sigh.

“Don’ look at me like that, Atlas. You know, I’m the one who delivered you into this world,” the man grumbled. “Listen, there ain’t anything I can do for her. Fool cracked her Core, probably cracked it again. Her Ether is gonna continue to leak out in abundance, she’s gonna continue to get fevers, and I ain’t got a special bandage for a Core. Can’t bloody believe I had to come here to just to say this shit,” the old man glared towards the servant.

“You can’t do  _ anything _ ?” Atlas hissed.

“Nope. Tell you what: can prolly hook her up to an IV with some medicine and alleviate the fever somewhat. But she prolly can’t be fixed. Thank you for wasting my time, little prince.” The old man saluted him lazily and turned on his heel.

Atlas rushed upon him and shoved him against a wall, shouting, “FIX HER!”

The man was completely unfazed. He leaned down, opened his mouth wide and let out a loud belch, right in Atlas’s face. The bastard shoved Atlas away and his parting words were thus:

“Can’t. Shame though, I got a pretty good high from her Ether.”

Atlas stood there, stunned.

He never wanted to see the light leave someone’s eyes more than he did right at that moment.

The servant did what they could for Vierce, which was hooking her up to an IV, slowly giving her water and medicine of some kind to calm down her fever. Atlas sat nearby on another bed, clenching his hands into angry fists, unable to place his anger. He was just … angry at everything, angry at Vierce for using her energy, angry at the sheer incompetence of that supposed doctor. Angry at himself.

If he hadn’t gone to Vierce last night, she would be okay right now.

Atlas didn’t go to training at all that day. Vierce finally woke up around dinner, just in time for all her friends to bring not only Vierce a plate, but also a plate for Atlas. His will to question their actions was spent, so he simply ate quietly as Vierce spoke sparingly with her friends. 

Percy sat beside Atlas on the bed and elbowed him lightly. “She’s gonna be okay. It’s just a fever.”

Atlas hummed, absentmindedly stirring around the noodles on his plate until Percy scooched a chocolate chip cookie onto it. Atlas side eyed Percy.

“What?” Percy laughed. “I don’t want it.”

“I already had a sweet this week.” Atlas settled the cookie back on Percy’s plate.

“Aw, come on,” Percy grasped Atlas’s hand and pressed the treat in his palm. Percy leaned close and grinned, his eyes shining prettily, “Live a little.”

Atlas's heart gave a startling jerk and his head heated up in seconds. He held his hand over his chest, as if that would alleviate the affliction. Atlas glared at Percy accusingly, “What did you just do to me?”

Percy smirked. “You tell me, Attie.”

“Hey,” Vierce spoke up with a hoarse, but humored voice, “Percy, stop flirting.”

“Why would I do that?” Percy laughed. “I can't help it anyhow, Atlas is too cute.”

His heart did that reckless somersault again. He didn't know what “flirting” meant, but at least he understood “cute.” Until now, that is! Him, himself,  _ cute _ ?? What? Why would Percy think  _ that _ ?

“See?” Vierce coughed, laughing a little, “You broke him!”

“I didn't mean to. There's no need to shut down, Atlas,” Percy smiled at him, “I'll stop if you're uncomfortable.”

Atlas had no reply to that, because he simply didn't know, which was becoming the norm. He knew he didn't like the blood rushing to his cheeks, or the concerning harsh thumps in his chest, but … but  _ what _ ?

He decided to somewhat ignore Percy, but only after breaking the cookie in half and giving one side to Percy. The visit dragged on for another hour or so until it was “bedtime.” There wasn't quite a time set in stone for when one should sleep, but a general time comes along when, after a hard day of training, the last of one's energy dwindles. Should a teenager decide to stay up too long, they will feel the regret in the morning.

Perhaps needless to say, but Atlas was the last one with Vierce. She seemed very tired, but smiled at him nonetheless, as if she did nothing wrong.

Atlas glared at her in the calm orange light of the sigils above their heads. “Why did you use your energy?”

“You mean my Ether?”

He didn't care what it was called!!

Vierce sighed, “Because. You're my friend.”

“I would have been  _ fine _ ,” Atlas hissed. He felt his eyes burn, “Now you're not.”

“Don't kid yourself,” Vierce shook her head, “You wouldn't have been fine. It hurt me more to know you were waking up crying every night than to have a broken Core. Every day you stumbled out of bed exhausted. I couldn't bear to watch it.”

Atlas gritted his teeth. “You're so stupid.”

Vierce  _ hmphed _ through her nose lightly and patted the bed beside her. Atlas glared for a long time before begrudgingly lying down, facing his back to Vierce, who smoothed down his hair gently.

“Don't use your Ether again,” Atlas quietly warned.  _ Or I'll hate you _ .

“I don't have to,” Vierce replied.

Whatever she'd done to him, it seemed to have a lasting effect. Atlas had another empty, but peaceful sleep.

 

○°☆°○ 

 

Vierce never truly recovered.

For about a week, Atlas slept beside Vierce in better health while his friend remained sick, and often suffered from pain in her Core. He stopped sleeping beside her, however, once his nightmares gradually returned; they eventually returned full force, but Atlas had a new resolve.

He had to be fine, for Vierce.

And so, Atlas always forced himself back to sleep after a nightmare, no matter if it took him two or three tries, no matter if he was terrified to enter nightmare after nightmare. He had to be rested, he couldn't let Vierce worry.

Though he stopped sleeping beside her, Atlas ran back to her after training straight away, every day, to keep her company. Sometimes walk with her and take her to the courtyard to soak in the warm sun. It took quite some time for her to regain enough strength to walk about and talk with her friends for longer than a few hours.

However, any physical exertion, like running, did not sit well with her Core, so Vierce couldn't train whatsoever. Well, Atlas thought about teaching her some self defense, but in the arena? She wouldn't be able to do much for herself, whether she knew self defense or not.

“I'll protect you,” Atlas told her resolutely as soon as Vierce voiced her concerns about the tournaments.

Vierce only gave him a half hearted smile, maybe because she doubted his ability.

What with spending so much time with Vierce, Atlas inevitably became somewhat comfortable around her friends, though two of them stopped visiting Vierce every day. The dedicated three, Percy, Marcilus, and Yve, were the ones he became most familiar with, so familiar, in fact, Atlas began giving them tips to improve their training. Personally, Atlas wasn’t one to focus on self defense much, so most of his tips leaned towards offense, but when sparring with Percy in the arena, he began to rethink his bias towards heavy offense.

Whilst sparring, there was no end to how many times Percy was able to tackle Atlas to the ground, or get his false sword far too close for comfort. Admittedly, Atlas was particularly flustered around Percy to begin with, and he couldn’t understand why. Each time Percy got close, Atlas either lost his footing, or blanked on what to do completely.

Percy was an opponent Atlas needed to defeat, to learn from, but he decided to spar less and less with him, despite the valuable knowledge he could gain. He simply couldn’t handle the annoyance and uncomfortable heart somersaults.

As one might expect, he began to feel an unjust bitterness towards the boy.

The weather was particularly cool during lunch one day, and Atlas ate with Vierce in the courtyard along with throws of teenagers. Vierce suddenly poked his arm and subtly pointed his gaze towards a certain girl across the courtyard.

“She’s really pretty,” Vierce told him.

Atlas had long since noticed the girl Vierce was talking about, but not because he thought she was pretty. She was small and spindly, in his opinion, but  _ incredibly _ fast and sly. Skills and strengths were beginning to blossom in the young gladiators, despite the incompetent teacher.

“Atlas, are you attracted to anybody?”

Atlas frowned at Vierce, as if she had grown a mushroom on her head. “Attracted?”

“You know. Maybe you can’t stop looking at someone? Or they make your heart skip? Maybe you have an urge to kiss them?”

Kiss? Atlas heard of the word, he’s seen some of the older teens do the act, but didn’t quite understand it. But the “skip” Vierce mentioned rung a particularly annoying bell.

Atlas narrowed his eyes and pointed towards Percy, who chatted with Marcilus a little ways away.

Vierce broke into a broad grin, her eyes shining. “ _ I knew it _ ! You like Percy!”

“No,” Atlas flat out refused.

His friend poked him, smirking evilly. “Yeees you doooo. You want to kiss Percy,  _ don’tcha _ ? And I bet he likes you too!”

His face flooded with heat and he smacked Vierce’s hand away, which made her laugh cheerily.

After that particular conversation, Atlas never failed to notice how often Vierce smirked his way whenever Percy stuck himself to Atlas’s shoulder, probably doing that “flirting” thing. Honestly, he’d given up on trying to find out what flirting was a long time ago.

Occasionally, Atlas would get into scraps with Vierce’s bullies, but they were mere ants and eventually became too afraid of him to bully Vierce or her friends. Atlas thought that any problems Vierce had would eventually come down to just the one: her Core. And maybe, if she rested long enough, she could recover.

However … two months passed, and her condition didn’t get better. Not only that, but her usual spryness and cheer dulled, and her Core began to hurt more often. Vierce slept more and ate a little less. Of course, her behavior didn’t go unnoticed by Atlas, nor Percy.

“She’s not coming to lunch again?” Percy inquired as he sat down beside Atlas in the courtyard.

Atlas depressively shook his head. He couldn’t drag Vierce out of bed, or convince her to “wake up.” 

Percy sighed and waved to Marcilus, who came running over with Yve. Atlas saw Marcilus’s trip before the boy’s toes even knew what was happening. Marcilus crashed to the ground and his plate went skittering across the ground. The plate was made of wood, so no harm there, but oatmeal and fruit splattered eagerly to the sandstone. 

Atlas’s eyes were drawn to a raspberry that left behind a bright red streak on the stone. He looked to his own plate and plucked out a blueberry. Hesitantly, Atlas dragged the berry on the ground, drawing a dark blue circle.

“Percy,” Atlas looked to the boy with a bright glint in his dark eyes, “Let’s go grab more berries.”

Next Vierce knew, she was being plucked right out of bed. Her eyes popped open and she yelped as Atlas nearly dropped her. “ATTIE! What are you doing!?” She demanded, kicking her legs until Atlas settled her on her feet.

“Just come see!” Atlas bid, pulling at Vierce’s hands until she reluctantly stumbled with him out of the sleeping room. Out in the hallway, she immediately saw a handful of teens painting on the ground and walls with plates full of berries. Atlas didn’t mean for the idea to spread, but the barracks was suddenly very lively from the prospect of painting with the lovely reds and blues of berries.

A handful of servants looked on woefully, specifically the ones Atlas convinced, or rather, intimidated, into getting him and Percy a bucket load of berries.

He guided Vierce into the courtyard, where Marcilus tossed her a rag. “Come paint with us, Viercy!”

Already the ground was decorated with miscellaneous doodles, mostly by Yve. She became enthralled by the idea of being able to draw and had begun a big drawing off to the side. While one could paint with the berries themselves, Percy would squash a few in a cup of water, wet a rag, and draw with lighter blues and reds.

A shine reached Vierce’s eyes and finally joined in on the fun. Gradually, as she drew more and more alongside her friends, she became her lively self again, joking around and tossing a few berries here and there at Marcilus or Yve.

Atlas didn’t draw himself. He walked around and watched Yve draw an actual  _ person _ . “Who is that?” Atlas asked, pointing to the curly haired person Yve had drawn.

“My mom,” Yve replied, carefully smudging in her mother’s cheek bones and even attempting to draw in eyelashes. Atlas didn’t inquire further and watched her draw for a while longer, until Percy called for him.

“Hey, Atlas! Does this look like a lizard?”

He stood and walked over to where Percy laid on his stomach. Atlas crouched beside him and turned his head a bit to try and make sense of Percy’s doodle. “Um … a squashed lizard?”

Percy laughed and whapped Atlas’s knee, “Be nice! I tried really hard.”

Atlas could at least understand that the fingerprints were scales. As Percy went back to drawing horns on the squashed lizard, Atlas’s gaze wandered to Percy’s lips. They were stained blue from all the blueberries he was snacking on.

Abruptly, a raspberry bounced off his nose and Atlas blinked rapidly, finding Percy smirking at him. “Attie, just what are you looking at?”

Heat rushed to his cheeks, and, inexplicably, Atlas became angry. He slapped his hand into Percy’s plate of squashed berries and took his red and blue hand to Percy’s face. A splotch of color was left behind, and Percy’s jaw dropped.

“Why’d you do that!?” Percy sounded offended, but he was already grinning and grabbing a handful of berries, crushing them and creating a horrid purple mess.

Atlas dodged Percy’s hand and leapt to his feet. “Vierce!” he called for some reason, as if she could help him against his long time foe.

Vierce cackled, “Run, Attie, run!”

Traitor!

Percy lunged and Atlas swatted his hand away, leaping over Yve and running behind a column. Atlas yelped as Percy’s berry ridden hand shot into view without warning and he spun on his heel.

“You’re gonna get tired eventually!” Percy laughed. “Just lemme get you and back and then we’re even!”

“No!” Atlas dodged behind Vierce.

“Don’t use me as a shield, you baby!” his friend chastised.

Finally, there wasn’t much Percy could do! Not unless he wanted to bulldoze right over Vierce. Plus, he was getting breathless and tired. Percy, however, was stubborn.

“Alrighty, we’re gonna settle this one way or the other,” Percy smirked. “Either I get to paint your face,  _ or _ … I get to kiss you?”

“Ooooo!” Marcilus sounded off.

Atlas’s head exploded in heat and even Percy’s cheeks lit up a bright red! Atlas didn’t respond with words, he simply chucked berries at Percy. Unfortunately, Percy dodged and the berries hit none other than Wiley, who was a constantly sunburned, lanky boy that never failed to pick a fight with someone at least once a day.

“OI!” Wiley growled and picked up his plate and flung all the berries it had into the air, aimed right at Vierce. Atlas yanked off his collar sneakily and swept his hand, forcing the berries to fling themselves in the opposite direction.

The berries splattered against several other individuals.

And that was all it took for the barracks to erupt into a gleeful chaos. Suddenly, peaceful painting turned into a war, with pelting berries and shrieks of laughter. The entertainment starved teenagers went at the battle like wild, grinning animals, painting each other pink, red, blue and purple! Atlas was swept away in the sheer delight of chaos, wondering why he ever cared about what got on his face or his clothes.

Vierce couldn’t throw too hard or she would exert herself, so Atlas teamed up with her. She would get him the ammo and he would pelt berries at oncoming enemies. All was going well, that is, until Vierce couldn’t get any more ammo without being splashed by berry water or smacked by a rag.

Atlas was scrounging up  _ mush _ when Percy yelled, “Watch out!” Atlas spun his head around and saw Wiley, coming in hot with both fists full of berry mush, ready to shove it all into Atlas’s face. But Wiley didn’t get him. Percy jumped out at the last minute, shielding Atlas and getting berry mush shoved into his face.

Percy yelled dramatically between sputters and collapsed beside Atlas, “Commander! I’m down!”

Atlas knelt, frowning, but also smiling at Percy’s ridiculous display of “death.” Percy looked up at him with a pitiful face and blew berry mush out of his nostrils.

“Why did you do that?” Atlas asked, trying to push away the smile on his face.

“ _ Why _ ? What do you mean, “why?”” Percy groused.

“It was just berries.”

Percy “coughed” and clutched his chest, as if his heart was bleeding out. “Come on, have pity. Don’t I get a reward for my heroism?”

Atlas looked into those warm, sparkly brown eyes and felt his will to resist wither away. Atlas grasped either side of Percy’s face and bent down, kissing his blueberry stained lips. The second Percy pressed back, Atlas’s heart gave a concerning twist and he escaped, jumping to his feet and running back to Vierce with his tail between his legs.

“Attie!” Vierce laughed as he hugged her, hiding his face in her hair. “What are you doing!? Go kiss him more if you want to!”

“No, I can’t breathe and I’m dizzy,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Aww!” Again, she laughed at him, but hugged him tightly. For a moment, she smoothed down his hair, but soon she froze and let go of him, stepping away as if maybe she touched his burning face and thought he was on fire. She looked at him with wide, confused eyes. “Atlas … where’s your-”

“ATLAS ANATORI!”

The hoarse, loud voice cut through the air of wild, teenage glee, bringing with it an inexplicable cold that made Atlas’s skin come alive with goosebumps. The air quickly became stagnant. Every berry dropped to the ground, and the red, blue and purple teens quieted instantaneously.

Master Rhys was a stark black figure who stood at the bottom of the courtyard steps, his one grey eye ice cold, skin white, as if his rage wasn’t a searing fire, but a desert night chill that could freeze any man to death in seconds. Atlas certainly felt all the warmth in him drain away.

Shakily, stiffly, Atlas stepped out of the crowd of teenagers and approached his master. Instinctively, Atlas knelt before Master Rhys, his head hung low. His master gently lifted his chin, only to backhand Atlas across his face. The slap was deafening in the stagnant atmosphere. The rings littering Master Rhys’s fingers marred his face with scratches.

“I never thought the day would arrive when I would have to tell you how to behave  _ twice _ ,” Master Rhys growled. “First I hear all your attention is on that little sickly wretch. Then I hear your training is  _ subpar _ . SUBPAR!”

Atlas flinched.

“And now, you have lowered yourself once again,” Master Rhys’s sharp black nails latched onto Atlas’s throat, puncturing his skin threateningly. His master hissed, “You, a champion of K’reche, are supposed to be a beacon of elegance, of superior strength. And yet all I see before me is a child once more covered in food, aligning himself with the meager scraps of royals who have fallen to the might of K’reche. Are you like your mother? Are you like your grandparents? Shall I put you upon the Anatori throne and watch as rotten food is thrown your way? Put you in a brothel to be used like the Anatori mutts in your family!? WELL!?”

“NO!” Atlas roared. “I am not an Anatori mutt! I am a champion for K’reche!”

Master Rhys released his neck and pulled him up by his robes. “Then you will  _ prove it _ . You are to kneel on bane salt in the arena until morning, and train until your lungs bleed.”

His master turned, and Atlas followed him, but his feet stopped atop the stairs when Vierce called out.

“Atlas!”

He peered over his shoulder, and found Vierce looking upon him with wide, angry eyes. Her voice held an edge to it, “Where, where is your collar?”

Atlas faced her and produced his golden collar from his robes.

Vierce sneered then, and Atlas’s heart ached. “You could just … take off your collar? At any time?” Her eyes welled up with tears and she shouted, “Every time I told you how much I missed my brother, how much I wanted to go home,  _ you _ could have helped us escape, but you just, just ate and slept here as if it wasn’t OBLIVION!? What the fuck are you doing!? FIGHT BACK RIGHT NOW!”

His soul shuddered violently, torn at with a rush of emotions. He didn’t know, he didn’t know what to do. His best friend was telling him to rebel. But this was his home. Atlas was a gladiator for K’reche, he existed for the glory of K’reche!

How dare she even speak of rebellion.

Atlas let go of a shuddering breath and snapped his collar back in place. Vierce stumbled back, as if the soft  _ click _ of the collar struck her soul. Atlas glared, a red gleam flashing across his deep, dark gaze. 

“There is no escape from the colosseum,” Atlas’s heart quaked, “If you want release, then  _ die _ in the arena.”

His punishment awaited. Atlas left the barracks without looking back, but he could feel Vierce’s sob like an ache in his lungs, growing needles in his throat and eye sockets. Master Rhys caressed his hair and traced his fingers down the middle of Atlas’s back, making his skin crawl.

For the rest of the night, Atlas wanted nothing more than to vomit.

 

○°☆°○  

 

He spent the entire night kneeling on bane salt. Bane salt was a coarse substance, rocks the size of rice grains with infinitely more edges. His whole weight gathered at his knees, pushing the bane salt into his flesh until tears ran down his face. No matter how he adjusted, the pain was not alleviated in any way. In fact, each movement prompted more pain, encouraging the bane salt to dig further.

It got to a point where he could swear the salt was digging against his very bones. Perhaps that was true, because when the sun finally made the sky a light shade of blue, he was allowed to stand. His knees were bloody, and one could see the salt lodged into his flesh. He could hardly stand on his own.

Servants cleaned his knees and wrapped them in bandages. That was the only reprieve he was allowed, then it was straight to training. If Driller was competent in one thing, it was the abundance of creative activities that had Atlas constantly moving. In the torture, under the searing hot sun, Atlas at least discovered new ways his energy could be used. Like sticks of lightning stuck to his limbs, his energy could force him to continue moving, to keep from falling to the ground, and to force him awake. 

Once the sun touched below the high walls of the colosseum, Atlas had no choice but to continuously use his energy like puppet strings, to keep his legs straight, to help him through his shower.

He was brain dead when he left the showers, but he was jolted awake when the front of his robes were grabbed and he was flung against a wall. A strangled breath was knocked out of his lungs, and Atlas’s eyes met Percy’s. The once gentle, pretty brown eyes were filled with hate and rage and tears.

“You,” Percy’s voice trembled through his gritted teeth, “You are a piece of work, you bastard. Because of you,” Percy blinked and more tears spilled over his cheeks, “She got sick. And then she was taken away!!”

Atlas was slammed against the wall again.

““Throw her in the desert!”” Percy cried, “That’s what  _ your  _ master said! You cunt!”

_ Viercy _ .

Atlas wrenched Percy’s hands off of him and forced himself to run down the hallway and take a left past the cafeteria. He ran right into cool, silken black robes and arms that loosely circled around his shoulders. His stomach shuddered and he peered up at his master.

Master Rhys's smile was the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “What is your rush, my champion? Now that you've been properly punished, I've forgiven you. You may rest.”

Wide eyed, Atlas clutched Master Rhys's robes and whispered, “Where is she?”

His master raised a sharp brow.

He gritted his teeth, “My friend. Where is she?”

“Mm,” Master Rhys hummed in remembrance and smoothed down his hair, “I took her away. She was sickly and useless, not to mention a rebel and a distraction.”

Atlas stumbled out of his master's grasp, his limbs shaking. “Give her back.”

Master Rhys chuckled, “Atlas-”

“GIVE HER BACK!!” Atlas screamed, his eyes momentarily flooding with red. The ground upon which he stood trembled and cracks formed along the walls and ceiling.

Master Rhys appeared surprised for a moment, but then his expression darkened into displeasure. “She was thrown out into the desert this morning. Miles away. She is dead.”

Dead.

Vierce's sparkling black eyes, her cackling laugh, her teasing, mischievous smirk. The warmth and comfort of her hand.

Dead?

Atlas's eyes flickered wildly from black and red and a shaky breath left him as he looked upon Master Rhys. Tears streamed down his face, and his voice leaked menace and rage.

“I hate you,” Atlas hissed, and broke into a roar, “I  _ HATE _ YOU!  _ I HATE YOU! _ ”

He swiped at Master Rhys with a small blade of sparking red energy in his hand. Master Rhys caught the blade, twisting it out of Atlas’s grasp. With a palm seeping blood, Master Rhys seized his wrist and turned, dragging Atlas along as if he were nothing but a sack of potatoes.

Atlas screamed and wailed. His energy failed him over and over again. He tried to stab Master Rhys in the back countless times, but his bright red blades would dwindle pathetically.

“LET GO OF ME! I HATE YOU! I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORE!”

“I’LL ESCAPE!”

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

Abruptly, he was thrown, his face met with golden sand. Because his energy was failing him gradually, Atlas struggled to lift his exhausted body. Sand stuck to his tear stained face. Atlas blinked and looked up, to peer upon the outside of the colosseum for the first time in his life. It’s sheer height struck him; constructed of rows upon rows of arches and richly carved columns. The entire outside was made up of glossy, pure white marble, but whilst being hit by the burning sunset, the colosseum appeared like a blood soaked pearl.

“No need for a daring escape, little prince.” Master Rhys’s glacial voice dragged down Atlas’s spine as he stared down at him like an inconsequential ant. “Leave. Right now. The world awaits for another scrap of filth.”

Atlas’s heart leapt into his throat and he struggled to his feet, tearing his gaze from the colosseum and out towards … towards the sunset, towards an endless expanse of gold, orange, and red sand. Grand, thin, pure white needles pierced the sky, surrounding the entire colosseum, and between each white needle stretched a translucent shield that writhed like the surface of a kaleidoscope.

His very bones trembled as he walked towards the shield. His teeth nearly chattered from the sheer, raw emotions that were flooding into his soul. What was beyond that frightening, ablaze horizon? More sand dunes? More people? Death?

Viercy?

He choked out a breath and lightly pressed his fingers against the shield. The translucent material gave way like flecks of ice, conforming to the shape of his fingers and just barely prickling his skin. Atlas looked towards the horizon and reached out further, shaking, feeling a strange, nearly imperceptible change in the air outside. Outside, away from the air of the colosseum, away from Master Rhys, the endless, faceless servants. Away from his … entire world, in exchange for what?

An endless sea of gold and red sand?

Out there, Atlas’s mind saw Vierce’s dark figure walking that infinite horizon, alone and tiny, a drop of water in a cruel desert.

Atlas took one step forward and his ears rattled as an ethereal hum erupted from the shield. All the writhing geometric shapes of the shield ceased their gentle movements, freezing on the spot. The ice-like flecks surrounding his arm latched onto his flesh. He choked on a gasp and pulled, yanking at his arm, trying to twist out of the shield’s hold.

The shield hummed louder, and the area closed around his arm began to brighten and brighten and brighten. Atlas screamed as heat pierced his flesh, drawing out fear from a deep, dark place in his soul.

“Master! Master Rhys!” Atlas cried.

“So I’m your master now, am I?” Master Rhys spoke pleasantly into his ear. “Only when it suits you? Or are you,  _ you _ , a meager Anatori prince, the master here?”

Atlas shrieked and cried as his blood splattered onto the shield, as black smoke rose up and tainted the air. The acrid smell of burning flesh invaded his nose, mouth and lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut and wailed, “Please, please make it stop, Master Rhys please help me please!”

“Just answer me this, dear child,” Master Rhys leaned down and inquired, “Where does all your love and loyalty lie?”

“My master, my master and K’reche!” Atlas sobbed.

Master Rhys slammed his hand against the shield, and the shield closed completely. Atlas screeched at the top of his lungs and fell to his knees, voice withering into quiet sobs. His body felt lighter whilst simultaneously being weighed down into the cold dark pits of Oblivion. Master Rhys gathered him up into his arms, allowing for his black robes to be soaked in blood.

Atlas clung to him, sobbing and shivering like a newborn. Master Rhys rubbed his back and murmured gently, as calm and serene as the indifferent stars that poked through the sunset bathed sky, “This is what you deserve for your impudence. You will learn the sword again with your left, and learn it well. Or else, you will lose all of your limbs.”

He cried out as his master dug his nails into his fresh wound. Rhys hissed, a smile laced around his voice, “Understand?”

With a pathetically small, hoarse voice, Atlas replied, “Yes.”

 

○°☆°○  

 

Dr. Laece’s room was dim, save for the light the old man shined at Atlas’s stump of an arm. He was so numb, head to toe, that the pain of having bits and pieces of his charred flesh scraped off felt like a faraway ache, as if his actual self was looking on from across the room.

Countless times, he had the urge to throw up, but he already threw up most of what was left in his stomach. Atlas couldn’t even cry anymore, so the knot in his soul found no outlet, and only grew tighter the longer he remained seated politely in Dr. Laece’s disgusting leather chair, having the fat old man’s hands on him, reminding him constantly that he no longer had his right arm. The ghost of his right hand was there as well. Outside, his severed arm pointed towards the horizon, cold and lifeless.

“It is rather disappointing you never saw that girl’s true reasons for befriending you,” Master Rhys mused from his seat a little ways away from Atlas. He was in a lighter mood, and spoke as he would any other day. “She only sought to use you. Not a soul in this world does anything without an agenda. Perhaps it is my fault for not properly educating you on this; then again, I never thought you would ever lower yourself to befriend any of those cretins, least of all the weakest one among them. Makes me nauseous.”

That makes two.

Dr. Laece finished tying the bandages around Atlas’s residual arm and patted his head. “Ha, not a single squirm. Wanna lollipop, champion?” Dr. Laece asked snidely.

Atlas didn’t spare the old man a single glance.

A soft knock sounded outside Dr. Laece’s double-leaved door, and Master Rhys stood, “Ah. A little gift has arrived for you, Atlas. Just a moment.”

The second Master Rhys left, Dr. Laece snorted and wildly ruffled Atlas’s hair. “You’re damn spoiled. But, that happens when you’re high royalty, eh? At least you got this ugly stump here. That’s makin me  _ real _ happy.” Dr Laece poked his nose. “Especially after that girl was dumped in the desert. Real shame. Wanted one last taste of royal Ether, and maybe a lil extra, you know? She wasn’t hard on the eyes, that’s for surAAAGH!!”

Blood splattered across Atlas’s face as he wrenched the silver pair of scissors out of Dr. Laece’s neck. The old man collapsed to his knees, making ugly choking sounds, desperately trying to put pressure on the gushing wound.

Atlas stood from Dr. Laece’s chair and kicked the old man’s shoulder, causing him to fall back into his desk. The lantern wobbled and fell on its side, casting a good amount of warm light upon the doctor. Blood gleamed nicely as it pooled onto the amber marble floor.

The doctor tried to scream, but he couldn’t even breathe, so he flapped his bloody mouth open and closed uselessly. Atlas looked to the scissors in his hand and murmured softly, “Hold these for me,” before lodging them into the doctor’s chest. The doctor had the strength to thrash his head from side to side, as if that would help fling out a scream for help from his throat.

Atlas snatched up the doctor’s jaw, holding him steady. Dr. Laece met his unblinking gaze, eyes wide in terror. Slowly, however, the energy to be terrified left the doctor’s face, and Atlas watched as every light and every thought within those eyes died.

“Thanks for the high,” Atlas hissed.

When he left the late Dr. Laece’s room, Master Rhys merely smiled at him, as if he was blind to the blood streaking across Atlas’s face and staining his hand. However, Atlas made a small servant jump, a very, very small servant.

This servant stood beside Master Rhys, clutching their shaking, scarred hands together tightly. When Atlas looked to them, they lowered their head immediately.

“Hmph,” Master Rhys gave a small laugh and smoothed down Atlas’s hair. “Dear prince, meet your gift. I figured a servant of your own might come in handy. Name them whatever you want. Do with them as you please.”

They were tiny. So much so that their black robes touched the floor, and as Master Rhys guided him back to the barracks, Atlas found that those robes made a constant  _ sh sh ss ss sifft sifft _ sound.

Master Rhys left them at the large doors to the barracks, locked inside. Well, only one of them could step out if they asked the guards.

Atlas stared at the tiny servant for a very long time, up to the point where the servant started shifting uncomfortably. They often moved their masked face just so, undoubtedly glancing at Atlas’s residual arm. His bloody, ugly, disgraceful stump.

“Your name is Sift,” Atlas finally spoke. And that was the last time he spoke, for a long long time. Months, maybe. He didn’t know, and never really cared.

He didn’t care about anything anymore. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 completed :v
> 
> Btw, I would really love to know your guys's thoughts if you wanna share! _(:3」∠)_


	9. I Care

For the first time in years, Atlas woke with tears clinging to his eyelashes and wetting his cheeks. He sighed long through his nose and turned his head to peer upon Milo’s sleeping form, and his feet that dangled off the edge of the bed. Atlas listened to Milo’s faint breathing for a moment longer, then slipped out of bed.

On time as usual, Sift appeared with Atlas’s clothes. Out in the arena, Atlas trained for an hour, then went back inside the barracks to have breakfast in the quiet and dim cafeteria. His gaze glazed over as he busied his mind with all that he needed to do for the next few weeks. The forty newbies were weak, he had to take things down a notch and build up their strength. It will take a little longer unfortunately, so he can’t wait around to gauge the strength of their Ethers, and see what they can do.

A little tune graced Atlas’s ears and he blinked, clearing the fog from his eyes to focus on his little bird. The tiny thing stood beside his plate and turned its head this way and that, as if trying to get a better look at him. Atlas smoothed his knuckle along the bird’s fluffy chest and it purred contently, eventually stepping over his finger and nuzzling itself beneath his hand.

Atlas squished the bird very lightly and rolled it like a piece of dough. He didn’t know why, but the creature enjoyed this immensely and became a lazy little puddle of fluffed up feathers. When it was especially relaxed and comfortable, a tiny blue feather would pop up from its head. Atlas poked this little feather while his bird purred and sprawled about languidly.

He didn’t have watermelon, but cantaloupe seeds would have to do. Atlas removed all the pale seeds from his slices of cantaloupe and fed one to his tiny bird. He paused, then looked to Sift over his shoulder.

“Sift, sit here.”

His brother hesitated and only came to sit beside Atlas when he confirmed that no servants were nearby. Almost immediately, Atlas’s bird flipped back onto its feet and eyed Sift warily. Even when Atlas grasped Sift's hand and placed a seed there, the tiny thing didn't go to him.

“It's your mask,” Atlas informed.

Sift put away the seed that was laid in his palm. He spoke quietly, “It is risky enough to sit with you so casually. I would rather not risk someone else knowing I've shown you my face, lest they tell Master Rhys.”

Atlas must truly be out of it. Did he forget what happened with Milo? Otherwise, how could he have been so stupid as to act differently with Sift? There was no way of knowing how much Sift could get away with just being the king's eyes.

His brother stood from the table, though didn't return to his usual spot just yet. Sift tugged Atlas's leather hair tie out, combed his fingers through Atlas's hair and promptly put it up in a higher tail.

“There,” Sift nodded to himself, sounding rather pleased.

Atlas knew why, of course. For years, Sift would occasionally ask if Atlas would like him to put up his hair. He always refused, especially when his hair grew long enough to be tied back. No matter how much he struggled with anything, he refused Sift's help. Atlas didn't want to use a servant given to him because of a handicap, a handicap his master bestowed no less.

So … what? Now that Sift has become his brother, he can do whatever he wants? Really? Next Sift will be braiding his hair??

After his bird finished its meal, Atlas sent it away and promptly left for the sleeping room. His hand was already on the sigil carved into the wall beside the door, to wake each gladiator, but Atlas paused as he glanced at Milo in the dim, pink tinged room.

“Sift,” Atlas murmured, looking to his brother over his shoulder.

“Yes?” Sift inclined his head.

Atlas removed his collar, “I want you to stay with Milo … please.”

Sift was silent for a second, then pressed his hand warmly against Atlas's back. “Of course.”

With that reassurance, Atlas cast a shield around Milo and activated the sigil on the wall, sending out a high pitched sound that invaded Cores and woke up the gladiators instantly. All except for Milo.

Atlas withdrew his Ether and snapped his collar back on. Despite the gladiators having minimal to no grogginess, a few still groaned and grumbled. Some, seasoned or newbie, looked to Atlas oddly, but he didn't stay long enough to gauge their stares. Servants flowed into the sleeping room seamlessly with fresh clothes and Atlas ventured out to the arena, feeling somewhat lighter knowing Sift was with Milo.

 

○°☆°○

 

Anyone with ears heard the commotion last night, albeit not all of it. Jakar and his fellow gladiators knew two things from just listening in (none of them dared move out of bed): one, Atlas was  _ livid _ and though he is usually violent when provoked, his violence has a certain calm and grace to it. But not this time. Ohh no, Jakar sensed an entirely different, chilling rage from Atlas, the likes of which he has never heard of. To be the subject of Atlas's affections was undoubtedly dangerous, but could simultaneously be like a suit of enchanted armor. Ah, and two? It was made clear to everyone that the colosseum's champion was in love. To become so unraveled and distraught for another person, there was almost no other way to see it.

Atlas was probably still willfully clueless. Jakar bet Atlas would shut down if he ever heard himself be described as “in love.”

The whole realization made the gladiators feel a boatload of things, especially after most of them heard Atlas's order to Sift. They were baffled, and likely rather apprehensive to talk about it, but it was the only thing they wanted to talk about! So the barracks was almost eerily silent as gladiators dressed and headed to the cafeteria. Jakar himself went straight to Milo.

Milo's complexion wasn't good, though it was better than yesterday, and he was breathing okay. It was a real relief seeing “minimal” damage on his back, considering the amount that was there previously. Jakar knew without a doubt that Atlas had taken Milo's collar off. 

Jakar wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to wake Milo up and make sure he had food and water in him … 

A gentle hand touched his arm then, and Jakar smiled immediately upon seeing Sift.

“Let him rest,” Sift bid, “I will get him everything he needs.”

Though some folks lingered to see Milo's condition for themselves, they eventually moved on, giving Jakar leeway to hug Sift close.

“Thank you, Sift. Did you tell Atlas…?” Jakar murmured, lightly tapping on Sift's mask.

“I did. I'm still not sure if it has helped him, but,” Sift sighed, “I'm going to do whatever I can.”

Jakar kissed Sift's hand and squeezed it tenderly, “I think you have helped. Take care, and don't stress too much. I'll see you after training, hm?”

Sift paused, then hooked his finger at Jakar in a “Come here” gesture. Jakar leaned down obediently and Sift lifted his mask just enough to give Jakar a kiss. Jakar immediately snuck a second before Sift blocked him with the mask.

He laughed as he was shooed out of the sleeping room. Jakar's smile faded, however, when he saw the big spots of blood in the hallway, undoubtedly where Atlas may or may not have killed the servant who whipped Milo. No body, so no telling.

Jakar looked out into the courtyard. Already, servants were scrubbing away at Milo's blood, calm as can be. The day felt like any other day. It was very difficult for Jakar to imagine a day where he can escape the colosseum. After nine years in this prison, the prospect of having a life outside was daunting, more so daunting than going up against K'reche.

Deep inside, Jakar felt that nothing would change and by falling for Sift, he may have doomed their hearts. But there was hope, a hope to live and love freely.

He just didn't know if he could place that hope in the hands Milo trusts so much. In fact, Jakar would rather put that hope in the hands of a love-struck champion.

 

○°☆°○

 

When the newbies arrived to the arena, Atlas made them run twenty laps with him, but not as fast as the first time. Atlas judged the general level they were at and this time most were able to keep up, falling no more than half a lap behind. As for pushups, Atlas decided to take control. His Ether kept all of their backs straight and their arms positioned perfectly. And though his Ether moved them like dolls, their muscles were still being used.

Just for twenty push ups, and at half the speed. Atlas was doing this because more than half of the newbies couldn't do more than five correct push ups. Truly pathetic. He hoped, after a week, they will have adequate strength and knowledge to do correct push ups, and at greater numbers.

Squats were fine, as fine as it could get for such a physically inadequate lot. Atlas knew who needed to stay in a handstand and who needed to stay in a squat for ten minutes. The stick-arm man got fifteen minutes in a handstand for whining so obscenely during push ups. 

Afterwards, the newbies got a break, far less exhausted than last time. Atlas had to admit, pushing them too far was a mistake. With this, most seemed energized, and after the break, they will have the energy to show him what they can do with their Ether.

There's some fun to look forward to.

Atlas went about supervising the seasoned gladiators. A handful of sparring gladiators seemed to be doing fine, until he neared, then their movements slowed, or faltered, as if they were distracted. 

“Do not allow distraction,” Atlas called towards the most distracted, floundering pair, Hans and Kas. Kas yelped as a life-sized figure made up of red, crackling energy popped out from behind Hans and “stabbed” her. It felt, at most, like a harsh pinch in her gut.

“Duos have become popular,” Atlas informed, “One locks you in, the other goes for the sneak kill. Often the latter will try to take your gaze away, and the former will have an opening.”

“Like how Thane and Lory fought?” Hans inquired.

Atlas forgot about that. “Mn. Exactly. Talk to Thane.”

He was about to move on, but Kas walked up to him quickly, though didn't dare come too close. She had dark hair and skin like most of the barracks, her body stout, but still taller than Atlas. Kas has made it four years in the barracks. Her specialty was ramming into the enemy and often throwing them around like bags of sand.

“Heya, Atlas,” Kas began in a rather timid manner, which already put Atlas on edge. This fierce gladiator wasn't one to lower her head or stammer. “I uh, I want to apologize.” She met him with her dark gold gaze.

What?

Atlas remained silent, and Kas continued, “Y'know, about … when we played “Never have I ever” and I was the first to, well, mention Master Rhys.” Kas sighed at her boots, “I'm sorry, Atlas. You didn't deserve that.”

What.

He had no words and couldn't find any, so Atlas turned and walked away, feeling incredibly out of place and honestly uncomfortable. Kas instigated much animosity when it came to Atlas, especially when she was a newbie. She spat at Master Rhys's feet and ordered Atlas to punish her. So he did; inflicting the same kind of pain he inflicted upon Milo. The kiss Master Rhys gave Atlas afterwards seemed to have been burned into Kas's mind forever.

The more Atlas thought about her apology, the more disturbed he felt. Just what was Kas trying to do? Take his guard down?

No time to speculate on that right now, Atlas other business.

“Jakar,” Atlas called.

The gladiator's attention was grabbed. He was in a headlock, but broke free in one swift move, including a sharp elbow into his sparring partner's gut.

“Ya got it?” Jakar patted the man's back, who wheezed and nodded. “Good! I'll come back and put you in a headlock, yeh?”

With a couple more pats on the back, Jakar left his partner and jogged up to Atlas. “What's up, chief?”

 Atlas stared at Jakar's big, friendly, expectant gaze and asked something that wasn't at all related to what he initially wanted to talk about.

“Since when were you and Sift lovers?”

Jakar seemed to suck in a prickly breath and coughed sharply. He swallowed with difficulty and smiled awkwardly, “Ah, er, he said, that? We're lovers?”

Atlas paused, then replied, “Not exactly. But it seems to be what he wants. And you?” he eyed Jakar.

“Uhh,” Jakar twisted a braid in his hair between his fingers, still smiling goofily, “Depends.”

Atlas glared sharply and took a step forward, “ _ Depends _ ?”

Jakar stepped back and held up his hands, “Well! I'm not sure I'll live if I say how much I'd love to be with Sift.”

Atlas wasn't sure why he felt so vexed, especially when he thought back to Sift's softly smiling face as he spoke so highly of Jakar. But after understanding where Jakar stood, Atlas was pacified.

“That is the only answer you must have,” Atlas informed.

Jakar breathed out and dropped his hands. “Got it. Duly noted.”

Still unsure how the subject of his brother and Jakar took precedent over his original mission, Atlas finally moved on to more important subject matter.

“Jakar. How do you ensure the gladiators around you survive?”

Jakar frowned. “Is this about Milo?”

Atlas crossed his arms, “No. The entire barracks. I want the death toll down to zero.”

His fellow gladiator’s brows rose up high. “ _ Zero _ ? Damn. What's gotten into you all of a sudden?”

“You are not answering my question,” Atlas bristled impatiently. “Whomever teams up with you are more likely to survive. How do you teach them to defend one another, to fight in harmony?”

Jakar thought about it, rubbing the back of his neck and looking to the sky. “Hmm, well, harmony comes about when individuals respect one another. They don't necessarily need to like each other, however. Hell, they could simply be interested in surviving. I guess once I got to know everyone, they seemed to trust me and I was able to mediate any problems they had with one another.”

Atlas's lip curled and his nose scrunched up just slightly. He mostly recoiled on the inside. Was Jakar indicating he had to familiarize himself with  _ seventy  _ individuals? Thirty seasoned gladiators who no doubt despised him and forty who are on their way? Not efficient whatsoever, especially if Atlas plans on commanding an entire army.

“Befriending throws of individuals is inefficient,” Atlas voiced his thoughts.

Jakar hummed, “True. Maybe the most important thing is letting them know you want them to live, that you care about them. You know, building trust. If they can trust that you have their backs, and they have yours, then they have hope. With hope comes ferocity,” Jakar's eyes lit up then and he grinned, “There's all sorts of games that can put folk in a cooperative mood  _ and  _ creates a sense of companionship. Like the Human Knot game.”

Atlas frowned. “Human Knot?”

“Mhm! Everyone stands in a circle and they grab each other's hands, crisscrossing arms until the group is in a knot. Then you all have to work together to become untangled without ever letting go of each other's hands.”

The scene sounded familiar. Atlas may have seen Jakar doing this activity with others, but it may be something Atlas repressed because of the ridiculousness of such a game. However, it sounded beneficial. He wasn't sure when, but Atlas planned on inquiring more about similar activities and then enacting them.

“How do you train others?” Atlas shifted to another note. Jakar has been around for nine years, but Atlas never truly paid attention to Jakar's teaching methods.

“I found it really helps to teach them self defense to balance out the amount of offense you teach. I usually-”

“I teach equal amounts of offense and defense,” Atlas glared.

Jakar gave a small laugh, “Well  _ kinda _ . Your defense is like … Get out of a choke hold, pivot and start fighting full force again. Or block, then jab. I teach them to get out of a choke hold and  _ run away _ , regroup or go after someone else. Or run away and keep at a distance, go in for short, quick attacks and slowly weaken your opponent. You stay up close and personal most of the time because you have both great strength and speed. Some folk can't stab and go.”

“I want to see you teach,” Atlas decided. “And how you interact with everyone.”

“Sure. In fact, you can fight me in a demonstration. You're exactly the kind of opponent I try to help folk protect themselves against.”

Atlas raised a curious brow. “What kind?”

Jakar gave a small smile, “Deadly and nearly unbeatable. You know, there's uh, a certain thing I taught everyone to do if they can't shake off, or beat someone. I'm surprised you never caught on to it.”

“To what?”

“To all the deadly opponents that are lead to you,” Jakar spoke a bit sheepishly, “If someone is desperate, I showed them that they can get the opponent in your vicinity and you'd cut them down. Works roughly eighty percent of the time.”

Of course. Atlas noticed certain patterns in the arena. A terrified “teammate” or two would sprint past him and he would come across a good fight. It was so obvious now, and yet Atlas hadn't given it a single thought for what, eight years?

Atlas had to admit, Jakar was clever. 

But… as Atlas recalled several instances of this trick happening, he realized what might have happened to Thane's lover.

“Lory tried the trick.”

Jakar's eyes darkened, and he lowered his head. “... That guy was going after Thane. Thane was distracting him so Lory could strike from behind. But Lory missed, he accidentally caught the bastard's attention and he panicked. I'm … not sure what went so wrong with the trick.”

Atlas was in a sword lock. He saw Lory run by him but never saw the mace-wielder follow. How did Lory end up with the mace in his skull? He didn't run back into close proximity.

Or did he? If so, why? 

Atlas closed his eyes and tried to recall the whole scene, but his mind snagged onto the familiar sound of a hollow crunch, very close behind him. He knew that sound, it was hardly alarming after ten years in the arena. It's the sound of a skull being struck, breaking into the brain.

Not moments after that sound, the mace-wielder came at Atlas.

Lory, that fool Lory, didn't jump out to block the mace… he didn't. That would be disgustingly foolish. Because if he did, that meant he might have been protecting Atlas and willfully leaving Thane behind, leaving him to rot in the wake of his lover's death. Atlas refused to comprehend such thinking. He refused to believe Lory was so idiotic.

Thane and Lory made Atlas nauseous.

Why didn't he kill the mace-wielder sooner?

No longer wanting to think about it any more than he had to, Atlas tried to think of another topic, though soon felt he had to continue his talk with Jakar later. The newbies’ break was dragging on and they were becoming listless.

“Training must continue,” Atlas spoke up, and glanced towards Sift's black figure, “After I assess the newbies-” He froze, and turned, finding Sift running up to him.

Of course Jakar's face lit up, but Atlas's darkened.

“What are you doing?” Atlas demanded his brother. His heart skipped, “Is Milo still here?”

Sift raised a finger, “ _ Um _ , yes. But,” Sift sighed and lowered his head, pointing towards the newbies, “I couldn't stop him.”

Atlas looked to the group and lo, there was Milo. He appeared somewhat refreshed, especially after having taken a shower, but his skin was still pale and he didn't hold his back straight. 

“What the fuck,” Atlas hissed beneath his breath and called sharply, “Milo!”

Those eyes gleamed as they met with Atlas. Milo left his conversation with a newbie and walked over to Atlas, who stomped over to meet him halfway.

“Why are you out here?” Atlas interrogated before Milo could get out a word.

Milo glanced towards one of the viewing platforms, where one guard stood whilst someone no doubt lounged in the shade. “Why else?” Milo met Atlas's glare, his brows drawn downward, “To train.”

Heat flared up Atlas's neck from his chest, “Are you stupid? Leave!”

“No,” Milo stepped forward, an angry, ethereal gleam crossing his bright gaze, “I'm  _ pissed _ . Rhys wants my spirit, he wants my subjugation and he'll take any amount of satisfaction he can get. I won't yield. So you're going to have to drag me out of here, because I sure as hell won't leave willingly.”

Something was both admirable and pathetic about Milo. Perhaps it was the big talk whilst being pale and slightly hunched over. He appeared as though Atlas could smack his back and he'd crumple to the ground.

Silly.

Atlas snatched up a fistful of Milo's shirt and yanked, immediately dragging Milo whilst he tried in vain to plant his feet solidly on the ground.

“Atlas!” Milo shouted, pulling back on his shirt, “I'm fine!”

No, you  _ are not _ . Milo's condition will yield subpar training at best. Not only would it be a waste of time, his condition might worsen, and Atlas couldn't bear the thought. What exactly was Milo trying to prove? That he has control? That he can simply defy Master Rhys? How is it Milo could be so naive still, even after being whipped and drained of blood? If Milo's defiance continues like this, if he continues to provoke Atlas, how will he ever make it until Atlas can take him out of the colosseum? He somewhat has the king's protection, but how long will that last? Atlas didn't even know why the king cared.

Just because Atlas desired Milo?

Abruptly, Milo managed to slither out of his shirt, and clear as day, Atlas heard him hiss from the struggle. 

“Milo,” Atlas growled, “You're pathetic.”

Milo sighed, a pained furrow in his brow as he straightened with difficulty. “Train me if I'm so pathetic then.”

At this point, Atlas would have to not only touch Milo, but hurt him in the process of dragging him out of the arena. After that, he would have to trust the big servants to handle him, and they won't be merciful.

The fool hissed in pain again as he moved and Atlas swept over, quickly taking a look at Milo's back. He had four major wounds that will become nasty scars, but one in particular was too deep to heal on Ether alone. Milo had ripped it open already. Who knows what the damage was like on the inside.

“You of all people,” Atlas growled, “Should know what you are doing to yourself. You know being out here will do nothing but damage.”

“It is well worth the risk!” Milo faced him, his eyes becoming red as he blinked away any semblance of a tear, “I can’t, can’t let him take away anything more from me.” His deep voice wavered weakly at the end, making Atlas's stomach churn.

Milo's desperation rung with too much familiarity. It made Atlas uncomfortable, immensely so. He lives his life trying to ignore the things he feels and was often successful, until Milo came along, making him feel what he didn't want to feel. Now Milo is facing a desperation Atlas has had to endure too many times to count.

He didn't want Milo to experience something like that.

Atlas felt that same desperation now. He was hanging around Milo for too long, and no doubt Master Rhys was watching his every move intently. What can he do? To give Master Rhys a show of cruelty will please him but injure Milo; to touch Milo in any other way will not be met with approval. The only reason Atlas is allowed to speak and touch in the arena is to train Milo.

_ “Maybe the most important thing is letting them know you want them to live, that you care about them,”  _ Jakar’s voice surfaced annoyingly, making Atlas want to gag. If there was anything he hated more than the complete disruption of his life in the colosseum, it was  _ caring _ . Even more so having to share his  _ caring _ with words.

Atlas closed his eyes briefly, shifting uncomfortably and breathing out slowly. He looked to Milo and resisted clenching his teeth as he spoke, “Milo. I care about you.”

Before, Milo’s gaze was stubbornly downcast, but then the harsh furrow in his brows lifted, as well as his big, mismatched eyes. Atlas couldn’t hold that wide eyed gaze at all, and glared down at his boots, tightening his hands into fists. He continued, “I don’t want to see you being self destructive … I want you to rest. And be safe.”

Milo had the  _ gall _ to hesitate, as Atlas’s skin crawled for having to say out loud how he felt. Milo seemed at a loss for words, his brows harshly pinned together. The silent “but” leaving his lips was infuriating.

But  _ what _ !? Twice now, for this man, Atlas has lowered himself. Why is that never enough!?

Atlas could just barely reign in his agitation and impatience before blurting, “For me.”

Milo silenced, Atlas met those big, bright eyes and spoke more quietly, “Rest for me. Please.”

A long breath left through Milo's nose, his tense shoulders falling. He closed his eyes and nodded. His voice sounded thick, as if he had a stone in his throat.

“Okay,” Milo swallowed, “Fine.”

Atlas couldn't help the sigh that left his body, nor his lungs unwilling to take in a new breath when Milo's fingers subtly brushed against his hand before reaching to hide behind Milo's neck, as if that was the only destination his hand was meant to reach. Sneaky and dangerous, you… 

“I'm sorry,” Milo murmured softly.

And then Milo finally left, leaving behind a jittery warmth that spread out from Atlas's chest to his fingertips. He tried rubbing away Milo's touch, but it stayed upon his hand, already sunken beneath his skin, like a disease.

Atlas cursed the love bug once more and looked to the newbies, then the seasoned gladiators. His skin prickled as he found most of them were looking his way. Of course, they'd instantly turned their gazes and pretended to be busy counting rocks or sparring, but he wouldn't be fooled.

The sun was just peeking out at them all inside the colosseum, promising a very long morning. Atlas was already exhausted. 


End file.
